Darkover: First Contact (57 page)

It sounded like one. He’d have to keep an eye on Bard, but at least he hadn’t been brought here for any prisoner-of-Zenda complications where he sat and rotted in prison so his double could get out and do things.

He caught pictures in Bard’s mind that already excited him. This, damn it, might be a world worth living in, not a tame one that relied on keeping everybody mushed down to a level of bland conformity, and lopping off the head of everyone who stood up above the pack!

Plenty of important personages, generals, rulers, had doubles; but somehow he thought it was going to be more than that. They could probably have found someone who resembled Bard pretty well, a relative or kinsman, without going nearly so far, and minor differences would have been covered by the convenience of having someone who knew their language and customs. Somebody like Paul, who couldn’t even dress himself in this society without being shown how, and who had to communicate by thought-reading so far—and only with one person, at that—that would be a grave inconvenience, so that there simply had to be a good reason, an
overpowering
reason to put up with him. They needed someone who was like Bard, but not just on the outside. They needed someone who was like him on the inside as well.

This might be a real world, then. Not just an existence within circumscribed limits, a real world where he could be a real man, among real men, not bloodless androids and clerics!

Bard stood up.

“Hungry? I’ll have them bring you something to eat. From what my father says, if it suits me, it ought to suit you. And I’ll send you some clothes. You’re about my size—” he remembered and broke into a mirthless laugh. “No, damn it, you
are
my size. We can’t do anything until your hair grows out—I can’t be seen without the warrior’s braid. Which gives us some time to teach you the rudiments of civilized life here, I suppose you do know the rudiments of swordplay—no? Your world must be a stranger place than I can imagine! I’m no duelist, so you won’t need to know the fancy stuff, but you have to know something of self-defense. And you have to learn the language. I won’t always be around, and it’s a nuisance to have to read each other’s minds all the time. I’ll see you later.” He stood up unceremoniously and went out, leaving Paul to shake his hand and wonder, again, if this were only some bizarre dream inside the stasis box.

Well, if it was, he might as well enjoy it.

But it was only ten days later that they set out for Castle Asturias. Dom Rafael had been unwilling to leave the government longer in the inexperienced hands of Alaric. And so the plan to wait until Paul could completely impersonate Bard had had to be abandoned too. On the contrary, they decided, it would be well to have them seen together, and a slight resemblance between them noted; thus, later, when Paul was
actually
impersonating him, no one would believe that the kinsman who resembled him somewhat, but not much, could be enough like him to do it. He didn’t want the idea to get around that there was actually someone carefully hidden away who was enough like him to impersonate him. People, Bard reminded his father, usually saw what they expected to see, and if he was seen often with a (supposed) kinsman who resembled him somewhat, but not too much, people who liked to gossip about things which were none of their business would be quick to point out that the resemblance was really not so great after all.

So, for the time being, Paul’s short hair, sun-bleached from a brighter sun than Bard’s, was darkened with streaks of a dye that made it gingery red, and he cultivated a small ragged moustache. Differences in manner and carriage, they felt, would do the rest. For the time being, it was to be given out that he was a
nedestro
grandson of one of the brothers of Ardrin and Dom Rafael who had died before Ardrin came to the throne, and therefore Bard’s cousin, discovered by him during his years of exile.

It would be given out that he had been living far north of the Kadarin, near to trailman country. This region was so remote that there was not the slightest chance of anyone who spoke that language, or observed those alien customs, coming to court; so that any mistakes Paul made would be put down to his rustic and uncouth fostering.

And it was good that Paul could be at court openly for a little while and learn for himself the manners and the political situation. Bard was relieved to see that Paul rode well, though not quite as well as he did himself. The thought-reading had helped. Paul already spoke
casta
somewhat, and his odd accent could be explained by his supposed rural upbringing in the Hellers. Their first task, Bard thought, must be to get rid of the last traces of that accent.

For the audacious plan was no less than this: to divide the armies they could raise, and send them on two separate campaigns, one against the Serrais to the west, the other to confront Carolin’s armies in the east; with each army believing that Bard himself was leading them; and at last to unify all the realm, and in the end, all the Hundred Kingdoms, under the overlordship of Alaric of Asturias. Then, with the Hasturs subjugated, the domains could be united, and there would be peace, without the tyrannical rule of Varzil’s infamous Compact! Peace, without the pressure of small fratricidal wars coming to the boil at every season from spring thaw to harvest, or a new kingdom springing up every time some little group of men didn’t like their lord and resolved to set up a new kingdom without him!

And then, Bard thought, such a Golden Age might return as had not been known since the Lord of Carthon made compact with the forest folk!

Central to this plan, though, was the military genius of Bard di Asturien and the particular charisma of the Kilghard Wolf. Paul, riding slowly behind Bard and Dom Rafael—as his assumed character of a poor relation demanded—could pick up a little of his thought, even now.
So I am to be Dog to his Wolf? We’ll see about that!

Paul thought about the theory that had brought him here; that he and Bard were, in essence, the same man. He was inclined to believe it. He had always known himself to be larger than his fellows, not in body alone—though that helped—but cut out, in mind, for a bigger and more heroic age than the one into which he’d been born.

The way he put it to himself was that most men had brains but no guts, or maybe vice versa; and of the rare men who had brains
and
guts, most had no imagination whatever. Paul knew himself to have all three; but they were wasted in the world he lived in. One of his early psychiatrists, back when they were still trying to reclaim him for the establishment, had told him frankly that be belonged on a frontier, that in a primitive society he would have been outstanding. Which hadn’t helped at all. The psychiatrist had owned up, just as frankly, that in Paul’s own society, unless he could resign himself to conform, his assets would all be liabilities.

Now he was putting both brains and imagination to work on Bard’s world. The four colored moons had already told him that this was none of the known colonies of the Confederated Worlds. Yet the inhabitants were perfectly human, so far, which would have strained credibility beyond endurance if they were not of Terran stock; and although he was no linguist, he knew that the
casta,
with its admixture of Spanish words, could not possibly have descended from anything but a Terran culture. He could only hypothesize, tentatively, that they had been descended from one of the Lost Ships—sent out, in the old days before hyper-drive, for colonization in a universe they had already found to be all but unpopulated. One of these ships had formed the Alpha colony, others the early ones, but most of them had vanished without trace and been assumed lost, with all aboard. Paul knew that the Confederated Worlds were prepared to find one or two survivor colonies, isolated, some day. He hoped they wouldn’t find this one in his lifetime. It would be a tragedy to see it beaten down to the same mediocrity as Terra, or Alpha, or any other known world!

 

Riding down toward Castle Asturias, a little before midday, Paul realized that it was a form of fortified building which had not been built on Earth for a few thousand years. It did not look much like the pictures of historic castles he had seen. The building materials were different, the life-style which dictated the architecture was different. But in the past few days be had been introduced to the theory of fortifications and strategies, and he set his mind to the problem of wondering how he would take this castle. It wouldn’t be easy, he thought. But it could be done, and he was fairly sure that if it came to that, he could do it.

However, he reflected, it would be easiest with an accomplice inside....

Dom Rafael went ceremoniously with his retainers to make his return known to Alaric and the councillors. Bard assigned Paul a couple of servants, a room or two in his own suite, and took himself off about unexplained business. Paul, left alone, went to explore the rooms he had been given.

He found a little stair which led down into a small enclosed courtyard, filled with late-summer flowers—though to Paul the climate still seemed cold for any kind of flowers. There were flagged walks everywhere, and the fragrance of herbs, and an old well. He sat down to enjoy the rare late-day sun, and think over the curious situation in which he found himself.

He heard a noise behind him and whirled—he had been a fugitive too long to ignore anyone or anything behind him—then relaxed, with a sense of foolish relief, to see that it was only a very small boy, bouncing a ball along the walks.

“Father!” the child cried. “They didn’t tell me you were back—” Then be stopped his headlong rush toward Paul, blinked and said with a charming little dignity, “My apologies, sir. Now I see that you are not my father, though you are very like him. I ask pardon for disturbing you, sir—I suppose, I should say
kinsman.
”

“That’s all right,” he said, deciding—it didn’t take much thought to figure it out—that this must be Bard’s son. Funny—he hadn’t thought Bard would be the kind to have a wife and kids, to tie himself down that way, any more than he was himself. Come to think of it, Bard had said something about arranged marriages, they’d probably married him off to somebody without asking, though he couldn’t imagine Bard tamely going along with that, either. Well, he supposed he’d learn.

“I’ve been told that there
is
a resemblance, after all, to your father.”

The child reproved solemnly, “You should say ‘the Lord General’ when you speak of my father, sir, even if he is a kinsman. Even I am supposed to say ‘the Lord General’ except among the family, for Nurse says I will be sent to be fostered soon, and I must learn to speak of him with the proper courtesy. So, she says, I should always call him so except when we are alone. But King Alaric says ‘my father’ when he speaks of my grandsire, Dom Rafael, and
he
does not call my father ‘Lord General’ even when they are in the throne room. I don’t think that’s fair, do you, sir?”

Paul, hiding a smile, said that royalty had privileges. Well, he had wanted a society where people were not worn down to a tiresome egalitarianism, and now he had it. At that, he had probably gotten a higher place in it than he deserved at the start!

“I suppose, kinsman, that you are from beyond the Hellers. I can tell by the way you speak,” said the child. “What is your name?”

“Paolo,” Paul said.

“Why, that is not so strange a name after all! Do you have names like ours in the far lands beyond the Hellers?”

“That is the
casta
for my name, or so your father tells me. My own name would sound strange enough to you, probably.”

“Nurse says it is rude to ask a stranger’s name without giving one’s own. My name is Erlend Bardson, kinsman.”

Well, Paul had guessed that already. “How old are you, Erlend?”

“I shall be seven at midwinter.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. He would have thought the boy was nine or ten, at least. Well, perhaps their year was a different length.

“Erlend,” called a woman’s voice. “You must not bother your father’s guests or his sworn men!”

“Am I bothering you, sir?” Erlend asked.

Paul, amused by the child’s dignified manner, said, “No, indeed.”

“It’s all right, my lady,” said Erlend, as a woman came along the curving path. “He
says
I am not bothering him.”

The woman laughed. She had a sweet laugh, very low and mirthful. She was young, her face round and freckled, and she had two long braids that hung almost to her waist, as red as the boy’s. She was not shabby, but she was dressed plainly, without richness or any jewelry except a small and shabby locket with a blue stone around her neck. She was probably the boy’s nurse, he thought; some poor relation or hanger-on. From what he knew of Bard, the Wolf would have dressed his mistress or fancy-woman in something more elaborate, and his wife would have been dressed according to her rank.

But how had Bard managed to overlook her? For to Paul it seemed that the rounded, womanly body, the low laugh and graceful hands and quick, mirthful smile, were the very embodiment of woman—yes, and of sex. He wanted her, suddenly, with such violence that it was all he could do to keep his hands off her! If the child had not been there....

But no. He wasn’t going to risk his position here, not right away, anyhow, by woman trouble. That, he knew grimly, was what had wrecked the plot and the reason he’d wound up in the stasis box. He hadn’t had the brains and judgment to keep his hands off the wrong woman. He had guessed, from random conversation among the bodyguards and paxmen, that the Kilghard Wolf was quite a man for the women—he’d have expected that, if Bard was his own duplicate—and he wasn’t going to quarrel with him on trivial grounds like that. There were plenty of women.

But this one. . . . He watched her with fascination, her delicate hands, the movement of the ripe, womanly body in her plain, simple dress. Her cheek was dimpled, curving into a light laugh as she admonished the boy.