Exile's Song (6 page)

Margaret considered these words. They had not been on the tape of Trade Language of Thendara City, but she was fairly certain she knew what
emmasca
meant. She had heard the famous castrati of the pleasure world of Vainwal, and could almost wish they were legal on other worlds. They had the reputation of being the finest voices in the Empire. Were they legal on Darkover? Or were they, whatever they were, born that way? The other term remained a mystery, because while she knew it, something seemed to be blocking her ability to understand its meaning.

Then she realized that Ivor was no longer beside her. She looked around, and found the professor standing underneath one of the street signs, studying the oddly-shaped violin on it. Margaret shook her head, retreated to him, and herded him gently down the narrow street. He was muttering happily to himself, asking himself questions and answering them almost immediately.

When they caught up with the boys, who were waiting very patiently, she asked, “The job of craft master is generally handed down from father to son, then?” Her brain might be tired, but it seemed her tongue ran on automatic and continued to ask questions.

The boys looked at each other and shrugged. It was Ethan who answered. “Sometimes. It depends on the son’s skill or lack of it. The MacArdis, and the MacArans, have been craft masters in the Music Guild for a long time now. Just as the MacEwans and the MacCalls are master tailors, and the MacDoevids are the best weavers in Thendara. Erald MacArdis will not care, for what he likes best is to wander about and gather songs. My sister Becca is married now to Rodrigo’s brother, so I hear a lot of music gossip when she comes home. Is that something like you do,
domna?
”

“That is exactly what I do. But, if you’ll forgive me for asking—I don’t know what’s rude here—didn’t your family want Becca to marry in the cloth guild? Why did she marry an outsider?”

“Why? Because she sings like a bird, is why. And the mess she makes with a loom! Why, I can weave better than she can—and I could when I was ten years old.”
I wish I couldn’t, so I could do what I want—but like Mama says, we don’t always get what we want!
“But to hear her sing—that really is a treat.”

“I hope to hear her, then,” Margaret said and the boy grinned up at her in the flickering light. He was really quite nice-looking when he smiled. And the emotion behind his thoughts was very strong—even though she was probably imagining the whole thing.

“Da let her marry outside the guild when she threatened to run off and join the Renunciates if he didn’t.” Margaret wondered what kind of a threat that was, what the Renunciates were, and what they renounced. She let the question that rose to her mouth go unasked. Ivor was drooping again, and beginning to shiver, his previous interest in the strange instrument gone.

“Does Master Everard live hereabout?”

“Right there,” said Geremy and led the way to a house halfway down the narrow street. It was a little larger than the rest, but gave no other indication to her eye of being different. The door had a painting of a stylized harp sort of instrument, and another of a bagpipe. Geremy put the bags down and bounced up the three steps. He gave a sharp rap on the door.

After a brief wait, a thickly-padded woman in her fifties opened the door and peered out nearsightedly. “Yes? Oh, it’s you, young man. What d’you want now?”

“I have brought your guests from the spaceport. They are important people from beyond the stars,” he announced, puffing up his narrow chest with pride. “Where is Master Everard, Anya?”

“What?
Now?
Are you certain?” She looked at Margaret in the flickering light from the doorway and shook her head. “That old fellow will forget his own name next! Come, come in! What a muddle! I wasn’t expecting you for yet another tenday, but I’ll manage, I suppose.” Anya seemed rather doubtful for a moment, then remembered her manners. “Do come in out of the cold,
mestra
and . . . surely you are not Master Doevidson?” She gave the name the local pronunciation rather than the Terran one.

“No, I am his assistant.” Margaret looked around and found that Ivor was still standing across the street, looking at the instrument painted on the closed shutters of a shop. His breathing seemed rather noisy, and she hoped he was not coming down with a cold or something worse. He looked so small and old in the flickering light of the torches that her heart ached.

“She is Margaret Alton, Anya,” Geremy said, evidently feeling that he must make the introductions. She heard the words as she started guiding Ivor across the street gently, and when she glanced up, she could see that Anya was surprised at her name. And very curious—the way the boys had been when she said it a few minutes before. She hadn’t really noticed, but now, remembering their reaction, she wondered what it meant, if anything. A good old name, Ethan had said. Probably it was a common patronymic, and there were Altons all over the place.

She could wonder about such things later. She guided Ivor up the stairs, toward the light and warmth of the house. He leaned heavily on her arm. “Come along now. It’s too cold to be standing out and looking at street signs.”

“Yes, yes, my dear. I am sure you are right—but are those paintings an accurate rendering, or are they merely stylized? You remember, on Delphin, we saw the pictures of the sacred horns, but the real things looked quite different. I just cannot believe those eff-holes.”

“Not tonight.” She led him inside. “The eff-holes will keep until tomorrow.”

Like an overweary child, Ivor broke from her grasp and turned around on the steps, starting back down them. “But I’ve never seen anything like it; what kind of tone do they get with star-shaped eff-holes? And what sort of wood . . . ?”

She was ready to scream with weariness and impatience, and she nearly took a nasty spill as she grabbed the edge of his cloak and virtually hauled him back. “Not tonight! Ivor, do come in. I’m cold. You are cold. You are going to make yourself sick, and then you won’t be able to do anything!”

“Moira! Raimon!” Anya shouted cheerfully. “Come out here and get these bags. We have guests!” She made it sound as if the absence of those she called was somehow their fault. Margaret would have laughed if she had not been quite so tired.

The stoop was a little crowded, between Geremy and Ethan and the baggage, but it sorted itself out in a few moments. The lads handed the bags to the man who appeared—he must be Raimon—and Ethan carefully placed Ivor’s precious guitar inside the door, out of the way of feet.

Margaret opened her belt pouch and fumbled in it for money. She drew out two silvery coins and handed one to each boy. They stared, and Geremy finally said, “
Domna,
this is too much.”

She was too tired to haggle. “Nonsense. You are going to come back tomorrow and take me to see your uncle the master tailor. I may want you to take me other places as well. May I expect you after the noon meal?”

“Yes, we will both be here.” He shook his head in wonder. “Whatever you need, we will help you find. Ethan’s brother works for the finest bootmaker in all Thendara and . . . well, it will keep, won’t it?” Then he shoved the coin into his pocket, and bounded to the foot of the stairs, where the other boy was waiting. “See? I told you she was
comynara . . .
” she heard as they raced down the uneven cobbles of the street.

That word again! She went into the house and closed the door, leaning back wearily against the heavy wood. Margaret pulled her hood down, and her red hair came tumbling out with the tug of the sleek fabric, damp and curling slightly. It clung to her neck and cheeks, and she felt like something the cat would not bother to drag in. Her skull pounded with a wretched headache, and the wonderful smell of cooking was enough to drive her wild with hunger. At the same time, she did not think she had ever felt so tired in her life.

Anya, plump as a pigeon, and the other servants were clustered in the doorway, staring at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. Briskly, she made herself smile anyway, and prepared to deal with the business of getting herself and Ivor some food and a place to sleep just as quickly as possible.

 

Margaret lay in a bed large enough to sleep three or four comfortably and reveled in the utter luxury of it.

After several days on the narrow couches of the ship, or in the cubicles provided at stopovers, it felt wonderful. And it was much larger than the bed she usually slept in in her quarters on University. The Terrans might regard Darkover as backward, but in the matter of decent beds, they were clearly very civilized. She looked toward the small window that pierced the wall. The first red glimmer of sunrise had awakened her, brushing her eyelids like a soft caress. One of the few things her father had ever said about Darkover, she decided, was accurate. She had never really believed it, but it was true; the great red sun of Darkover really was the color of blood. “The bloody sun” was descriptive, not poetic hyperbole.

Now she tried to recall the events of the previous evening. There had been a warm, meaty stew, something that tasted like venison, but not quite, served with crusty bread, obviously home-baked. Margaret had eaten without tasting much, because in between bites she had to act as translator for Ivor and Master Everard MacArdis. The professor had clearly memorized all the musical terms that were on his disk, but his accent was dreadful, and she had a hard time figuring out his meaning sometimes. He did not have the natural musical line of Darkovan speech yet—he would in a few weeks—and his Terran Standard pronunciation was distressing.

Words kept filling her mind, things she must have learned as a child, or things she had heard through the walls from her parents, but they were jumbled up so she sometimes had to pause in the middle of a sentence for several seconds before she could continue. More, she was mildly disturbed by the places where she found words she “knew,” yet could not really grasp. Why should she have a mental block on some words, but not on others?

The demands of being the middle of a three-part conversation held by two elderly musicians, eager to exchange information, had been exhausting, and Margaret had been extremely glad when Ivor nodded off abruptly. Master Everard apologized for his enthusiasm, and called Anya to take them to their rooms. She liked the music master immediately, and felt at home in his large, comfortable house.

Margaret let the pleasant memory of the previous evening slip away, and returned to her problem with the language. She did know it, and for the most part, understood it. She must have been fluent in it once—after all, it had been her first language. She knew that
casta
was descended from Gaelic, Spanish, and English—but was no more like those languages than English was like ancient High German. So, what was the matter?

Another memory curled up from her mind, like a snake stretching. It was rather vague, and also unpleasant. It had something to do with that ugly building—The John Reade Orphanage. She shrank away from the memory. It had not been a bad place, just very ordered and cold. And no one was supposed to speak Darkovan within its walls. Matron—she couldn’t remember the woman’s name, only that she was very stiff and stern—had been very determined about that. She washed out little mouths with soap if she caught them speaking
casta
or any other dialect. They were supposed to speak Terran Standard and nothing else.

She chuckled to herself. That must be the root of her difficulties—a sort of aversion to the very language of her childhood. Margaret could almost taste the soap. Well, she was no longer a child, and Matron must be long gone, either dead or retired. Satisfied that she had solved the puzzle, she let her mind wander onto more pleasant subjects.

Margaret thought about the wonderful hot bath she had enjoyed before going to bed. The great steaming vat of hot water was very like those in her memories, and she had soaked away the aches and disgusting scents of space travel. Gervis, an old servant she had not met at the door, had taken charge of Ivor, and with relief she saw that he knew just how to handle a weary, querulous old man.

The girl, Moira, had shown her to her room, and she had found her things unpacked. Her tiny recorder and the blank disks were stacked neatly on a chest, and a warm flannel nightgown was laid out on the bed. It was very clean but well-worn, darned neatly around the embroidered cuffs, and the collar turned. She had been happy to wear it, rather than having to sleep in her skin, or the horrid tube of Terran-made synthetic, considered appropriate for travel, she had packed in her bag. Clean, warm, and dressed in soft folds of flannel, she had fallen asleep—or rather, lost consciousness, almost before she pulled up the blanket.

Now, as the bloody sunlight set the room aglow, she sat up and looked at the embroidery around the cuffs.
Yes, my stepmother wore something like this when I was very small; it was embroidered with butterflies. No, it wasn’t Dio—it was someone else. Why did I think it was Dio?
Everything was so terribly familiar and so alien at the same time. She shivered a little, for while the house was warm, it was still much colder than she was used to. Still, it felt rather nice—the sharp tang of the air, and the smell of the nightgown. There was some fragrance they used—she was sure she would remember the name in a minute or two—on linens, and it made her feel safe. Margaret knew the mind never really forgot anything, but she felt besieged by all these disordered fragments of memory, vague and fugitive wisps of remembrance, like gnats circling her face.

I used to dream of a sun as ruddy as this one. And Anya kept staring at me in the oddest way all evening, almost as if she knew me. But, why? I don’t look very much like my father. The Senator is dark-haired and gray-eyed; my hair is red and my eyes yellow—“like a cat,” he always used to say, when he was in his better moods—or drunk. It is not a physical resemblance, then, at least not to my father. Something about my name!
Margaret found she did not want to pursue that thought. Something about it made her uneasy.