Heritage and Exile (63 page)

“No doubt, on that day, there will be Hastur bodies lying dead too, but it will come for all that. Listen, Dani,” he said urgently, “do you
really
understand the situation? A few generations ago, when the Terrans came here, it was because we happened to be in the wrong place at the right time—a planet located between the upper and lower spiral arms of the Galaxy, exactly where they needed to set up a spaceport as a crossroads and transit point for Empire traffic. They'd have preferred an uninhabited planet, and I'm sure they debated making us into one. Then they discovered that we were a lost Terran colony—”

“And Saint-Valentine-of-the-Snows lies buried in Nevarsin,” Danilo said, exasperated. “I heard all that when we were prisoners in Aldaran three years ago, Regis!”

“No, listen—the Terrans found us, speaking languages long dead on Terra itself; but we were a primitive world, which had lost its technology, or so they thought. They gave us Closed World status, so that we would not be disturbed by too-rapid social upheavals—they do that with all primitive societies, so that they can evolve at their own rate. Then they found out that we were not so primitive a planet after all, and they found out about our
laran,
our matrix technology. They found that the linked minds in the Tower circles could mine metals, power aircraft, all those other things—well, they wanted matrix technology, and they tried all sorts of things to get some of it.”

“Regis, I know all that, but—”

“Will you
listen?
You know as well as I; some Darkovans wanted, and still want, the advantages of Terran technology, a place in the Empire, status for Darkover as a colony with political strength, representation in the Empire Senate—all those things. Others, especially in the Comyn, felt that Empire citizenship would destroy our world and our people. That we'd become just another colony like a dozen others, dependent on Terran trade, offworld metals and luxuries, tourists. . . . They've had their way so far. I can see that there will have to be changes on Darkover. But I want them to come at a rate we can assimilate.”

“And I don't want them to come at all,” Danilo said.

“Who would? But the Terrans are
here,
like it or not. And I will not be accused of trying to keep our people primitives, barbarians, so that my family and I can maintain our superstitious powers over them!”

He had spoken more forcefully than he realized, forgetting where they were. A languid voice said, “Bravo! The Heir to Hastur has come of age and learned that Terrans are a reality, not a crew of bogeymen to frighten little children!”

Regis started. He had forgotten they were not alone. He turned to see a tall thin man, fair-haired, with the stamp of the Comyn on his angular features, elegantly dressed in foppish Darkovan clothing, but with rich alien furs adorning his cloak. Regis bowed, his face set in rigid politeness.

“Cousin,” he acknowledged. “I did not see you, Lerrys.”

“Nor I you,
Dom
Regis,” said Lerrys Ridenow, “but when you shout so loudly that the Terrans in their Headquarters could hear you across the city, why should I pretend I did not hear? I am glad to know that you understand the situation. I hope this means there will be another advocate for sanity in the Council this year, and that the Ridenow need not stand alone against that doddering conclave of maiden ladies of either sex!”

Regis said stiffly, “Please don't believe that I am altogether in agreement with you,
Dom
Lerrys. I do not like to think of the kind of social upheavals there would be, if we became just another Terran colony—”

“But we
are
another Terran colony,” Lerrys said. “And the sooner we recognize it, the better. Social upheavals? Bah! Our people want the good things Terran citizenship will bring them, and they would accept the rest, once they were confronted with an accomplished fact. They simply haven't enough education to know what they want, and the Hasturs, and the worthy lords of the Comyn, have made sure they won't have it!” He half-rose. “Must we shout this from table to table? Will you not join us, cousin—and your friend as well?” He used the intimate inflection of the world, with its implications, and Regis, flicked raw, glanced at Danilo, half-wishing the other would refuse; but there was no reasonable cause for denial. Lerrys was Comyn and his kinsman. There was no reason for his distaste.

They took a seat at Lerry's table and accepted a fresh round of drinks, which neither of them wanted. After another round or two, he thought, he would make some excuse, then he and Danilo would go somewhere and dine; Early Quarters had been some time ago. Soon there would be the sound of Night Quarters from the Guard Hall and he could invent an engagement somewhere. The places he chose to dine would be too tame for Lerrys and his elegant hangers-on; most of them, he could see, were Darkovan, but they wore elaborate Terran clothing; not the functional uniform of the spaceports, but brilliant and colorful things from the far corners of the Empire.

Lerrys, pouring the wine he had ordered, went on, taking up the conversation he had interrupted, “After all, we
are
Terrans; we deserve all the privileges of our heritage. Everyone in the Domains could benefit from Terran medicine and science—not to mention education! I happen to know you can read and write, Regis, but you must admit you are a happy exception. How many, even of the cadets, can do more than scribble their names and spell their way through the arms manual?”

“I think they have enough education for what they must do in the world,” said Regis. “Why should they burden themselves with idle nonsense, which is what most written matter turns out to be? There are enough idle scholars in the world—and in the Empire, for that matter.”

“And if they are uneducated,” Lerrys said with a sardonic smile, “it is easier to keep them in superstitious bondage to the Comyn, fabulous tales about the God-given rulership of the Hasturs, kinfolk to the Gods. . . .”

“Certainly I would agree with you that there is no excuse for that kind of mental slavery,” said Regis. “If you heard what I was saying before, you would hear that I was protesting against that sort of tyranny. But you cannot say that we are Terrans and no more.” He reached across the table; took Lerrys's hand and laid his own palm-to-palm with it, counting the six fingers; then touched the small leather bag at his throat, where the matrix stone rested; a small warmth, a pulse. . . .

“The powers of the Comyn are real.”

“Oh—
laran,”
said Lerrys with a shrug. “Even some of the Terrans who come among us have developed it; it, too, is part of our Terran heritage, and we can teach them something of this, too . . . Why should it be limited to the Comyn? In return we will have their sciences; knowledge of weather control, which would be like a blessing from the Gods in some of the country across the Hellers; the Dry-town desert, perhaps, reclaimed for agriculture, and some of the impassable mountains across the Wall Around the World, brought into contact with the Domains; astronomy, star-travel—and in return,
laran
and knowledge all through the Galaxy. . . .”

“That could be dangerous, too dangerous to spread indiscriminately through the Empire,” said one of Lerry's young companions diffidently. “Were you there when Caer Donn burned, Lerrys?”

“I was,” Regis said, and looked sharply at the young stranger. “I know you. Rakhal—Rafe—”

“Rakhal Darriell-Scott,
z'par servu,”
said the young man. “They call me Rafe Scott, in the Terran Zone. I saw then what
laran
uncontrolled can do—and hope never to see it again!”

“No fear of that,” Lerrys said. “The Sharra matrix was destroyed. As far as we know, that was the only one of those old matrixes from the Ages of Chaos left on our world. Besides, if there are such things, we should learn how to control and use them, not hide like banshee-birds in the sunlight, and pretend they do not exist. Believe me, the Terrans are no more anxious than you to see
laran
out of control that way.”

“And, no matter what happens, there will always be those who can use
laran
and those who cannot,” said another youngster. There was something familiar about him, too; Regis thought he was probably one of Rafe Scott's kinsmen. He was not eager to remember that time at Castle Aldaran, and the frightful time when Sharra had raged and ravened in the hills across the river. He and Danilo, escaping from Aldaran, had come near to dying in those hills. . . .

“Still, we are all Terrans,” said Lerrys, “and the Empire is our heritage, as of right, not a privilege; we should not have to ask for Empire citizenship or the benefits of Empire. They gave us Closed World status, but it's high time to rectify that mistake. Before we can do that, we must acknowledge that the Terran Empire is our lawful government, not the local bigwigs and aristocracy! I can understand that you, Regis, would like to keep your place of power, but listen to me! In the face of an Empire which spans a thousand worlds, what does it matter what the peasants think of our nobles? As long as this is a Closed World, the local aristocrats can maintain their personal power and privilege. But once we acknowledge that we are a part of the Terran Empire—not that we wish to become part of the Empire, but that we are already so, and thus subject to their laws—then every citizen of Darkover can claim that privilege; and—”

“Perhaps there are many who do not consider it such a privilege—” Danilo began hotly, and Lerrys drawled, “Does it matter what such people think? Or, in denying them that privilege, are you simply demanding your own, Lord Danilo, as warden of Ardais—”

But before Danilo could answer that, there was a commotion in the front room; then Dyan Ardais strode into the back room, where the few remaining senior officers, and the Comyn, were sitting. He came directly to their table.

“Greetings, kinsmen.” He bowed slightly. Danilo, as befitting a foster-son in the presence of the Head of his Domain, rose and stood awaiting recognition or orders.

Dyan was tall and spare, mountain Darkovan from the Hellers; his features aquiline, his eyes steel-gray, almost colorless, almost metallic. Ever since Regis had known him, Dyan had affected a dress of unrelieved black whenever he was not in uniform or clad in the ceremonial colors of his Domain: it gave him a look of chilly austerity. Like many hillmen, his hair was not the true Comyn red, but coarse, curly and dark.

“Danilo,” he said, “I have been looking for you. I might have known I would find you here; and Regis with you, of course.”

Regis felt the little ironic flicker of telepathic touch, recognition, awareness, annoyingly intimate, as if the older man had taken some mildly unsuitable liberty in public, tousled his hair as if he were a boy of eight or nine; nothing serious enough so that he could object without loss of dignity. He knew Dyan liked to see hm ill at ease and off balance; what he did not know was
why.
But the Ardais Lord's face was blank and indifferent.

He said, “Will you both dine with me? I have something to say to you, Danilo, which will affect your plans for Council season, and since I know your first move afterward would be to tell it to Regis, I might as well say it to both of you at once and save the time.”

“I am at your orders, sir,” said Danilo with a slight bow.

“Will you join us, cousin?” Lerrys asked, and Dyan shrugged. “One drink, perhaps.”

Lerrys slid along the bench to make room for Dyan and for his young companion; Regis did not recognize the younger man, and Lerrys, too, looked questioningly at Dyan.

“Don't you know one another? Merryl Lindir-Aillard.”

Dom Merryl was, Regis thought, about twenty; slender, red-haired, freckled, good-looking in a boyish way. With a mental shrug—Dyan's friends and favorites were no business of his, Aldones be praised—he bowed courteously to young Merryl. “Are you kin to
Domna
Callina,
vai dom?
I do not think we have met.”

“Her step-brother, sir,” Merryl said, and Regis could hear in the other young man's mind, like an echo, the question he was too diffident to ask:
Lord Dyan called him Regis, is this the Regent's grandson, the Hastur Heir, what is he doing here just like anyone else, like an ordinary person. . . .
It was the usual mental jangle, wearying to live with.

“Are you to sit in Council this year, then?”

“I have that honor; I am to represent her in Council while she is held at Arilinn by her duties as Keeper there,” he said, and the annoying telepathic jangle went on:
in any other Domain it would be
my
Council seat, but in this one, damn all the Council, rank passes in the female line and it is my damned bitch of a half-sister, like all women, coming the mistress over us all. . . .

Regis made a strong effort to barricade himself and the trickle of telepathic leakage quieted. He said politely, “Then I welcome you to Thendara, kinsman.”

The dark, slender youngster sitting between Lerrys and Rafe Scott said shyly, “You are Callina's brother,
dom
Merryl? Why, then, I shall welcome you as kinsman too; Callina's half-sister Linnell was fostered with me at Armida, and I call her
breda.
She has spoken of you, kinsman.”

“I'm afraid I don't know all of
Domna
Callina's relatives,” Merryl returned, in the most indifferent formal mode. Regis winced at the direct snub he had given the boy, and suddenly knew who the other must be; Kennard's younger son, Marius, never acknowledged by the Council, and educated among the Terrans. Regis hadn't recognized Marius, but that wasn't surprising; they moved in different orbits and he had not seen the boy since he was the merest child. Now he must be all of fifteen. He seemed indifferent to Merryl's snub; was he merely so accustomed to insults that he had truly learned to ignore them, or had he only learned not to seem to care? With a little extra courtesy, Regis said, “Dom Marius; I did not recognize you, cousin.”