She put the thought aside; she was to spend the rest of the morning working with Alessandro—Aleki, she reminded herself of his Darkovan name—preparing him by speaking of the background of the Domains, and elementary forms of courteous address among them.
They had been working for several days, in one of the smaller offices in the new Intelligence department, sometimes with the presence of the younger Montray—Monty—and sometimes alone together. Jaelle did not object to this; Aleki’s manner was completely impersonal; he never seemed to regard her as a woman, but simply as a colleague. Jaelle, nervous and suspicious at first, now felt almost friendly toward him.
Aleki’s first business had been to read through everything about Darkovan society which had been gathered by agents working in the field. Much of it was signed by Magda Lorne or by Peter Haldane, a fact which made it especially interesting to Jaelle; how much they had discovered about her world! Today she found him running through the account she herself had made of her trip into the Hellers, and comparing it with Magda’s account and Peter’s. As she came in he pushed it all aside and greeted her.
“But I do have some questions to ask you,” he said. “Before we begin, are you thirsty? May I get you something? It may be a long session—I have a lot to say. Coffee? Fruit juice?”
She accepted the fruit juice, and took a seat at the table across from him. He fussed with the console, fetching some sort of hot drink for himself, and brought it, steaming, to the table.
“All three reports I have here, as well as some of the others,” he said, “speak of wintering in Castle Ardais—am I saying it right?”
“Are-dayze,” she corrected him gently, and he repeated it.
“How is it that you, a Free Amazon—and I understand they are not very highly regarded in the society—were accepted as a guest at Castle Ardais, with Haldane and Lorne, and no questions asked? Is hospitality so open in the mountains as it is on Darkover?”
This man is very intelligent; I must not underestimate him. “Lord Ardais would indeed shelter anyone homeless in his Domain,” she said, “but I was welcomed as kinfolk there; Lady Rohana is—is a kinswoman of my mother.‘’
“And you are related, then, to Comyn… for I understand the Ardais are of the Comyn? I do not entirely understand how it is that the Comyn rule all the Domains,” he said. She could almost feel his curiosity, a palpable presence, and cursed the unwanted laran which thrust itself upon her, not controlled or desired.
“Nowhere in these Records,” Aleki said, “is there any indication of how the society of Darkover took on such a feudal cast, or why the hierarchy called Comyn rose to power. Of course, what we know of Darkovan history is far from complete—”
“Most of us know little more,” Jaelle said carefully. “What records we do have of the origin of Darkovan society are lost in what we call the Ages of Chaos. At that time—” she hesitated, knowing she should not speak—it was the will of the Hasturs that no Darkovan should speak to the Terranan—of the heyday of the Towers and of the old matrix technology which had all but destroyed their world.
“About the earliest time of which we have much history,” she said, “is about five hundred, seven hundred years ago, when all these lands—” she touched the map he had copied, lying on the desk, “were divided up into a hundred or more little kingdoms.”
“It seems a small country to be divided up into a hundred kingdoms,” Aleki commented, and she nodded.
“You must understand, many of the kingdoms were very small; they used to say that a lesser king could stand on a hilltop and look out over his whole kingdom, unless a resin-tree had grown up that season to hide a half of it,” she told him. “There is a children’s game called ‘king of the mountain’—is it played on your world?—where one child scrambles to the top of a hill and the others try to push him off, and whoever succeeds is king—until someone else pushes him off in his turn. It seems some of the smaller kingdoms were much like that. I know the names of only a few of them—Carcosa, Asturias, Hammerfell. About the time of the signing of the Compact—surely you know the Compact?” she broke off to ask him.
“Isn’t that the law in the Domains that no weapon may be used which does not bring the user within arm’s reach of death?”
“That’s right,” she said, “It reduced wars to the minimum; and, as I said, about the time of the signing of Compact, there were a series of wars called the Hastur Wars, and slowly, one by one, the Hasturs conquered all these lands; then they broke them up again into what we call the Seven Domains, each ruled over by one of the Great Houses of the Hastur-kin; the Comyn. The Domain of Hastur rules over the Hastur lands to the east, the Domain of Elhalyn over Hali and the western hills, the Altons rule over Armida and Mariposa, and so forth and so on…”
“I can see the Domains outlined on the map,” said Aleki. “What I want to know is how they came to power, and why the common people should obey them so unquestioningly. If you are a kinswoman of Lady Rohana, as you say, then you are evidently akin to Comyn and must know something of their history and power.”
“I know no more than anyone knows,” Jaelle evaded, “and through all this land there are very few who have not some trace of Comyn blood. Even I, and I am, as you pointed out, no more than a simple Renunciate.”
She had begun to feel that this was some sort of testing, like a Training Session before she had taken the Oath. Again, all her hidden conflicts and loyalties were being brought out and explored. He persisted:
“I still do not understand why the common people should so unquestioningly do the will of the Hasturs.”
“Do you people in the Empire not obey your governors and rulers?”
“But our rulers are chosen from among ourselves,” he answered. “Though we still call ourselves ‘Empire,’ we are an Empire without an Emperor, and structured like a Confederation—do you know these terms? We offered Darkover full membership, with autonomous government and representation in our Senate by members chosen by themselves. Almost all planets which we occupy are more than happy to be members of a star-spanning Empire, rather than remaining isolated barbarians bound to their own solitary worlds. Yet Darkover has not joined the Empire, and we do not know why; we do not know whether it is truly the will of the Darkovan people or only the will of the Hasturs and of the Comyn.‘’
For the first time she sensed that he was being wholly honest, and that he was puzzled. After a moment she asked him quietly, “Was Darkover given a choice? Or did you simply come here, establish yourselves, and then offer us membership in your Empire?”
“Darkover—Cottman IV—is an Empire colony,” Alessandro Li said quietly. “You were colonized from Terra, many years ago. When we came here, we knew that; you had lost your history—perhaps within those Ages of Chaos of which you speak. The Comyn have chosen not to make this fact known to your people, so that you people may reclaim your heritage. Normally, local planets are pleased to have the resources of a star-spanning civilization.”
It was a temptation to repeat the arguments she had heard, against the Empire and against the Terranan, but how could she speak for Comyn? And if she did, Aleki might badger her for more detail than she felt able to give. She realized that this long explanation had been given in order to draw her out, to get her to speak unguardedly, and she withdrew carefully from the offered gambit.
“I personally see no reason for making Darkover just another of the worlds of the Empire,” she said. “But I am not privy to the mind of Hastur. The Hasturs have probably gone into the matter much further than I, and I for one am content to let them judge these matters.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to have a voice in the decision yourself?” he asked her curiously, “rather than mindlessly obeying the will of a ruling caste?”
“I do not mindlessly obey the will of any man, be he Hastur, husband or God,” she flashed back at him. “But the Comyn have studied this subject and I have not had the opportunity to know all sides of the matter as they have.
Piedro has explained your system of representative democracy to me, and it seems only a way for the decisions to be placed in the hands of those unfit to make them. Would you rather listen to the voices of a thousand—or a million—fools, or to the voice of a single wise man well trained in these matters?”
“I do not automatically assume that a thousand, or a million, of the common people must be fools, or that one who speaks for the ruling class must be wise,” he retorted swiftly. “And if the thousand, or the million, are fools, is it not the business of the wise to instruct them, rather than letting them remain ignorant?”
“You are making an assumption I do not accept,” replied Jaeile, “which is that instructing a fool will make him a wise man. There is a proverb which says—a donkey may be schooled for a hundred years, and only learn to bray louder.”
“But you are not a donkey. Why do you assume that your fellow commoners are not competent to learn as well as you?”
“I am not ignorant,” she said, “but I cannot see as far as the Comyn. I have no laran, and even if I learned as much as I am capable of learning, I cannot read the minds and hearts of men, nor see past and future as they can do. It is this which gives them the strength to rule, and the wisdom which persuades the head-blind to accept their wisdom.”
“Laran,” he said quickly, “what is laran?” And Jaeile realized a moment too late that he had led her into this debate, just for this reason—that she might speak, unguarded. She cursed the pride that had led her to enjoy sharpening her wits on this Terranan.
“Laran?” she repeated blandly, as if she hardly remembered what she had said. But he had, of course, one of those forever-be-damned records, the words she spoke had been recorded on to one of their wretched devices and he could listen over and over to what she had said, analyze it, know what she had betrayed.
“Laran. I know what the word means, of course—psychic power, which most Terrans consider superstition. And your people believe that the Hasturs have it?”
She hesitated just a moment too late before answering; she should have said quickly that yes, the common people superstitiously believed in the powers of the Comyn. But now it was Alessandro Li who backed away, courteously.
“I think we have done enough for one day, Jaelle. We would not want to be late for the Legate’s reception tonight.”
“Certainly not, since you’re the Guest of Honor,” she answered, and at his startled look cursed herself again; worse and worse; she remembered that she had not been told this, that Piedro had not known.
“How did you know that? Are you psychic yourself?” he asked. She said, “Oh, no, when there is an—an important guest such as yourself, it doesn’t take laran to guess that the Legate will honor him at a reception.” She stood up quickly. “I’m afraid my mind was wandering a bit.”
“I hope I have not tired you; I’m afraid I am a very demanding taskmaster,” he said in apology, “but we’ll break this up for today; you can go and make yourself beautiful for the reception. I am looking forward to knowing your husband better. I know his work in records, of course, he must be quite an exceptional man, to have attracted so competent a wife.”
She ordered herself not to blush at the compliment, resisting the impulse to tug at the immodestly short skirt. Years of Guild-House training should have made her immune to this kind of thing. She stood up, remembering the sharp teaching of the Guild Mothers, your body language says more than your words, if you behave like a woman and a victim, you will be treated as one; try to stand and move like a man when you are working among men. She said in her most businesslike manner “I am sure Piedro will be honored,” and strode away.
She should warn Piedro; this man was sharp, he could put together small hints in an uncanny way. He might lead Piedro to talk too much. How could she blame her husband, when she had done the same thing? But she had made the mistake of underestimating Li; Piedro at least would be forewarned.
How much does Piedro know? Goddess! I wish I could talk to Magda! she thought.
At one of the high windows overlooking the spaceport, she paused, casting an eye at the great, declining, bloodshot eye of the sun. Perhaps she had time to go through the streets of Thendara to the Guild House, talk with her oath-daughter… but no. There was this accursed reception to get through, and Piedro had warned her this morning that all the invited personnel were expected to be at their finest; he had suggested that she visit the personal-services department and have her hair done.
She shrugged and decided to do exactly that. She had been curious about it anyhow; it was a ritual which all of the women here at HQ seemed to undergo at frequent intervals, and she knew that Peter would be pleased if she went to considerable lengths to make herself beautiful for him. And in the last few days she had been working so hard in Aleki’s office that she had seen Peter only when he was asleep, or nearly so.
The personal-services area was on the cafeteria floor, painted in a rosy pink color which made Jaelle, raised under a red sun, feel comfortable and soothed. She had begun to think of this time among the Terrans as an adventure, something to relate with pride to the young Renunciate novices when she was old and housebound.
She punched her ID card into the first machine, and a sign flashed: TAKE A SEAT AND RELAX. YOU WILL BE ATTENDED SOON She read the afterimage of the words—sign reading was an exercise in reading swiftly. To Jaelle it was gone before she could focus her eyes. She took one of the gently contoured pink chairs, and waited, thinking over the last days. Time! Alessandro Li was fiendishly aware of time, even more than average Terrans, who were all clockbound to an incredible degree. She had heard gossip among the women in Communications; Bethany said that under normal circumstances, an official on his level would have done nothing, not even requisitioning an office to work in, until after the official reception; but he had begun work immediately, and had kept her with him most of these days. She felt wrung dry, as if he had actually pressed her and squeezed out all the juices of her knowledge; and this was only a beginning. There was so much tension in the awakening memories—for she had told him, and Kadarin, things she did not know that she knew or remembered—that even when she returned to their apartment she would lie awake, aching, her mind racing, too tired to sleep, hardly closing her eyes until it was time to get up. Time! Time! She lived at the mercy of a clock face, time to work, time to eat, time to make love, time, always time!
At home, she had been able to call an attendant whenever she needed something she could not do for herself; even in the Guild House, where none was servant to another, women did for each other these sisterly services. It was never hard to find some sister who would help you to lace your dress, curl your hair or cut it, lend cosmetics or clothing. Here everything was done by machines, it seemed. At length another sign flashed, YOU MAY GO IN NOW. and she took her courage in her hands and went into the pink room; and stopped cold in the doorway.
Racks that tilted every which way, chairs that tilted and turned to the tables, clamps to hold the head, straps to hold the victim in place… the darkness reeled around her for a moment and she had literally to hold to the door. For a moment she was a child again, back in the insane years before her real life had begun, a child who had secretly crept to the door of a hidden room to steal a glance, not knowing it was her father’s torture chamber…
Mother! Mother! For a moment she wanted to run, shrieking, as she had done then, to hide her head in her mother’s lap—
Then, abruptly, it was just another room, a Terran room filled with machinery, that did with metal fingers what flesh and blood could have done better. She could even make out, now, robot machines for cutting hair, for curling it, for soothing cosmetics… perfumed sprays. The room smelled and looked calm and soothing, but Jaelle could not force herself to step inside; finally she managed to free her feet, which seemed, as they had seemed then, rooted to the ground. She fled down the corridor, through the cafeteria, out the heavy doors and across the hard paving, forgetting to use the undergr
ound tunnel, never seeing the Terran eyes that turned to watch her fleeing form, stare at her. She threw herself, gasping, on her bed and buried her face in the pillows, glad beyond belief that Piedro was not there to demand explanation of her curious behavior. Had she disgraced him again? She no longer knew or cared.
It seemed only moments later—had she slept for a few minutes, an hour?—when the door chimed softly. A visitor at this hour? Or had Piedro forgotten his key-card again? Keys and locked doors, for her, belonged to matrix laboratories, dungeons—torture chambers!
Braced to welcome Peter, she was amazed to find Bethany Kane standing in her door.
“Jaelle, honey—are you all right? I saw you running across the court as if the devil was after you! Listen, is that bigwig from the Senate bothering you? He has no right to do that! I dropped in, but his secretary said you’d gone down to get your hair done—can I come in? People are sleeping on this corridor and I don’t want to wake them up.” She came in, as Jaelle gestured, then suddenly took in Jaelle’s disheveled appearance.
“What’s the matter? Not going to the reception? I was going down to have my hair done, too, I thought we could go together—”
Bethany went and stood before Jaelle’s dressing-table, running her fingers through her own hair. “I’m a mess, and Montray will expect everyone on the staff to look their best. Do you have some extra curlers? Or are you going down to the beauty shop—?”
She was looking expectantly at Jaelle, and Jaelle said woodenly, “I did go down. But I—I decided not to go in.”
“Honey, was somebody down there nasty to you? If they were, you ought to put them on report. They’re there to wait on people, and if anybody made a single nasty remark—”
The Saga of the Renunciates Page 39
