Heritage and Exile (6 page)

Failed. I've failed. Even Lew, tower-trained and with all his skill, couldn't help me. There's nothing there. When he said what he did about potential, he was humoring me, comforting a child.

He reeled, feeling sick again, clung momentarily to the wall and ran on.

The Comyn castle was a labyrinth, and Regis had not been inside it in years. Before long, in his wild rush to get away from the scene of his humiliation, he was well and truly lost. His senses,
kirian
-blurred, retained vague memories of stone cul-de-sacs, blind corners, archways, endless stairs up which he toiled and down which he blundered and sometimes fell, courtyards filled with rushing wind and blinding rain, hour after hour. To the end of his life he retained an impression of the Comyn Castle which he could summon at will to overlay his real memories of it: a vast stone maze, a trap through which he wandered alone for centuries, with no human form to be seen. Once, around a corner, he heard Lew calling his name. He flattened himself in a niche and hid for a few thousand years until, long after, the sound was gone.

After an indeterminate time of wandering and stumbling and hallucinating, he became aware that it had been a long time since he had fallen down a flight of stairs; that the corridors were long, but not miles and miles long; and that they were no longer filled with uncanny crawling colors and silent sounds. When he came out at last on to a high balcony at the uppermost level, he knew where he was.

Dawn was breaking over the city below him. Once before, during the night, he had stood against a high parapet like this, thinking that his life was no good to anyone, not to the Hasturs, not to himself, that he should throw himself down and be done with it. This time the thought was remote, nightmarish, like one of those terrible real dreams which wakes you shaking and crying out, but a few seconds later is gone in dissolving fragments.

He drew a long, weary sigh. Now what?

He should go and make himself presentable for his grandfather, who would certainly send for him soon. He should get some food and sleep;
kirian,
he'd been told, expended so much physical and nervous energy that it was essential to compensate with extra food and rest. He should go back and apologize to Lew Alton, who had only very reluctantly done what Regis himself had begged him to do. . . . But he was sick to death of hearing what he should do!

He looked across the city that lay spread out below him. Thendara, the old town, the Trade City, the Terran headquarters and the spaceport. And the great ships, waiting, ready to take off for some unguessable destination. All he really wanted to do now was go to the spaceport and watch, at close range, one of those great ships.

Quickly he hardened his resolve. He was not dressed for out-of-doors at all, still wearing felt-soled indoor boots, but in his present mood it mattered less than nothing. He was unarmed. So what? Terrans carried no sidearms. He went down long flights of stairs, losing his way, but knowing, now that he had his wits about him, that all he had to do was keep going down till he reached ground level. Comyn Castle was no fortress. Built for ceremony rather than defense, the building had many gates, and it was easy to slip out one of them unobserved.

He found himself in a dim, dawnlit street leading downhill through closely packed houses. He was keyed up, having had no sleep after his hard ride yesterday, but the energizing effect of the
kirian
had not worn off yet, and he felt no drowsiness. Hunger was something else, but there were coins in his pockets, and he was sure that soon he would pass some kind of eating-house where workmen ate before their day's business.

The thought excited him with a delicious forbiddenness. He could not remember ever having been completely alone in his entire life. There had always been others ready at hand to look after him, protect him, gratify his every wish: nurses and nannies when he was small, servants and carefully selected companions when he was older. Later, there were the brothers of the monastery, though they were more likely to thwart his wishes than carry them out. This would be an adventure.

He found a place next to a blacksmith's shop and went in. It was dimly lit with resin-candles, but there was a good smell of food. He was briefly afraid of being recognized, but after all, what could they do to him? He was old enough to be out alone. Besides, if anyone noticed the blue-and-silver cloak with the Hastur badge, they would only think he was a Hastur servant.

The men seated at the table were blacksmiths and stable hands, drinking hot ale or
jaco
or boiled milk, eating foods Regis had never seen or smelled. A woman came to take Regis' order. She did not look at him. He ordered fried nut porridge and hot milk with spices in it. His grandfather, he thought with definite satisfaction, would have a fit.

He paid for the food and ate it slowly, at first feeling the residual queasiness of the drug which wore off as he ate. When he went out, feeling better, the light was spreading, although the sun had not risen. As he went downhill he found himself among unfamiliar houses, built in strange shapes of strange materials. He had obviously crossed the line into the Trade City. He could hear, in the distance, that strange waterfall sound which had excited him so intensely. He must be near the spaceport.

He had been told a little about the spaceport on Darkover. Darkover, which did almost no trading with the Empire, was in a unique location, between the upper and lower spiral arms of the galaxy, unusually well suited as a cross-roads stop for much of the interstellar traffic. In spite of the self-chosen isolation of Darkover, therefore, enormous numbers of ships came for rerouting, bearing passengers, personnel and freight bound elsewhere. They also came for repairs and reprovisioning and for rest leaves in the Trade City. Most of the Terrans scrupulously kept the agreement limiting them to their own areas. There had been a few intermarriages, a little trade, some small—very small—importation of Terran machinery and technology. This was strictly limited by the Darkovans, each item studied by Council before permission was given. A few licensed matrix technicians were set up in the cities; a few had even gone out into the Empire. The Terrans, he had heard, were intrigued by Darkovan matrix technology and in the old days had laid intricate plots to uncover some of its secrets. He didn't know details, but Kennard had told him some stories.

He started, realizing that the street directly before him was blocked by two very large men in unfamiliar black leather uniforms. At their belts hung strangely shaped weapons which, Regis realized with a prickle of horror, must be blasters or nerve guns. Such weapons had been outlawed on Darkover since the Ages of Chaos, and Regis had literally never seen one before, except for antiques in a museum. These were no museum pieces. They looked deadly.

One of the men said, “You're violating curfew, sonny. Until the trouble's over, all women and children are supposed to be off the streets from an hour before sunset until an hour after sunrise.”

Women and children! Regis' hand strayed to his knife-hilt. “I am no child. Shall I call challenge and prove it?”

“You're in the Terran Zone, son. Save yourself trouble.”

“I demand—”

“Oh hell, one of
those,
” said the second man in disgust. “Look here, kiddie, we're not allowed to fight duels, on duty anyhow. You come along and talk to the officer.”

Regis was about to make an angry protest—ask a Comyn heir to give an account of himself in Council season?—when it occurred to him that the headquarters building was right on the spaceport, where he was going anyway. With a secret grin he went along.

After they had passed through the spaceport gates, he realized that he had actually had a better view yesterday from the mountainside. Here the ships were invisible behind fences and barricades. The spaceforce patrolmen led him inside a building where a young officer, not in black leather but in ordinary Terran clothing, was dealing with assorted curfew violators. As they came in he was saying, “This man's all right; he was looking for a midwife and took the wrong turn. Send someone to show him back to the town.” He looked up at Regis, standing between the officers. “Another one? I'd hoped we'd be through for the night. Well, kid, what's your story?”

Regis threw his head back arrogantly. “Who are you? By what right did you have me brought here?”

“My name's Dan Lawton,” the man said. He spoke the same language in which Regis had addressed him, and spoke it well. That wasn't common. He said, “I am an assistant to the Legate and just now I'm handling curfew duty. Which you were violating, young man.”

One of the spaceforce men said, “We brought him straight to you, Dan. He wanted to fight a duel with us, for God's sake! Can you handle this one?”

“We don't fight duels in the Terran Zone,” Lawton said. “Are you new to Thendara? The curfew regulations are posted everywhere. If you can't read, I suggest you ask someone to read them to you.”

Regis retorted, “I recognize no laws but those of the Children of Hastur!”

A strange look passed over Lawton's face. Regis thought for a moment that the young Terran was laughing at him, but face and voice were alike noncommittal. “A praiseworthy objective, sir, but not particularly suitable here. The Hasturs themselves made and recognized those boundaries and agreed to assist us in enforcing our laws within them. Do you refuse to recognize the authority of Comyn Council? Who are you to refuse?”

Regis drew himself to his full height. He knew that between the giant spaceforce men he still looked childishly small.

“I am Regis-Rafael Felix Alar Hastur y Elhalyn,” he stated proudly.

Lawton's eyes reflected amazement. “Then what, in the name of all your own gods, are you doing roaming around alone at this hour. Where is your escort? Yes, you look like a Hastur,” he said as he pulled an intercom toward him, speaking urgently in Terran Standard. Regis had learned it at Nevarsin. “Have the Comyn Elders left yet?” He listened a moment, then turned back to Regis. “A dozen of your kinfolk left here about half an hour ago. Were you sent with a message for them? If so, you came too late.”

“No,” Regis confessed, “I came on my own. I simply had a fancy to see the starships take off.” It sounded, here in this office, like a childish whim. Lawton looked startled.

“That's easily enough arranged. If you'd sent in a formal request a few days ago, we'd gladly have arranged a tour for any of your kinsmen. At short notice like this, there's nothing spectacular going on, but there's a cargo transport about to take off for Vega in a few minutes, and I'll take you up to one of the viewing platforms. Meanwhile, could I offer you some coffee?” He hesitated, then said, “You couldn't be Lord Hastur; that must be your father?”

“Grandfather. For me the proper address is Lord Regis.”

He accepted the proffered Terran drink, finding it bitter but rather pleasant. Dan Lawton led him into a tall shaft which rose upward at alarming speed, opening on a glass-enclosed viewing terrace. Below him an enormous cargo ship was in the final stages of readying for takeoff, with refueling cranes being moved away, scaffoldings and loading platforms being wheeled like toys to a distance. The process was quick and efficient. He heard again the waterfall sound, rising to a roar, a scream. The great ship lifted slowly, then more swiftly and finally was gone . . . out, beyond the stars.

Regis remained motionless, staring at the spot in the sky where the starship had vanished. He knew there were tears in his eyes again but he didn't care. After a little while Lawton guided him down the elevator shaft. Regis went as if sleepwalking. Resolve had suddenly crystallized inside him.

Somewhere in the Empire, somewhere away from the Domains which had no place for him, there must be a world for him. A world where he could be free of the tremendous burden laid on the Comyn, a world where he could be himself, more than simply heir to his Domain, his life laid out in preordained duties from birth to grave. The Domain? Let Javanne's sons have it! He felt almost intoxicated by the smell of freedom. Freedom from a burden he'd been born to—and born unfit to bear!

Lawton had not noticed his preoccupation. He said, “I'll arrange an escort for you back to Comyn Castle, Lord Regis. You can't go alone, put it out of your mind. Impossible.”

“I came here alone, and I'm not a child.”

“Certainly not,” Lawton said, straight-faced, “but with the situation in the city now, anything might happen. And if an accident occurred, I would be personally responsible.”

He had used the
casta
phrase implying personal honor. Regis lifted his eyebrows and congratulated him on his command of the language.

“As a matter of fact, Lord Regis, it is my native tongue. My mother never spoke anything else to me. It was Terran I learned as a foreign language.”

“You are Darkovan?”

“My mother was, and kin to Comyn. Lord Ardais is my mother's cousin, though I doubt he'd care to acknowledge the relationship.”

Regis thought about that as Lawton arranged his escort. Relatives far more distant than that were often seated in Comyn Council. This Terran officer—half-Terran—might have chosen to be Darkovan. He had as much right to a Comyn seat as Lew Alton, for instance. Lew could have chosen to be Terran, as Regis was about to choose his own future. He spent the uneventful journey across the city thinking how he would break the news to his grandfather.

In the Hastur apartments, a servant told him that Danvan Hastur was awaiting him. As he changed his clothes—the thought of presenting himself before the Regent of Comyn in house clothes and felt slippers was not even to be contemplated—he wondered grimly if Lew had said anything to his grandfather. It occurred to him, hours too late, that if anything had happened to him, Hastur might well have held Lew responsible. A poor return for Lew's friendship!