Exile's Song (20 page)

Scott escorted her to 411, leading her through several corridors and up lifts and down two flights of stairs. “You never would have found your way alone,” he assured her.

“I can see that. This place is a worse maze than Comyn Castle. Why was she so hostile?”

“I don’t know the whole story, but she screwed up badly on her last posting, and it made her bitter. Darkover is not the sort of place that Terrans want to come to—it’s become a kind of demotion to come here, during the past few years.”

“Is everyone here like her?”

“Hardly. We have a lot of very good people here, dedicated people who have the best interests of Darkover at heart. At least they think they have the best interests—which is bringing Terran progress to Darkover. Regrettably, what the Darkovans want and what the Terrans imagine is good for them are not always the same thing. I have a foot in both places, and like you, I am a citizen of two worlds. That isn’t easy. The Terrans made some dreadful blunders in the past, and the Darkovans did, too. One of the things your father undertook to do was heal some of those wounds, by keeping Darkover protected but not excluded from the Federation.”

Even though it was obvious now, Margaret had never thought of the Senator as a servant of the planet he represented. She felt not only ignorant, but stupid because she had paid so little attention to his work. She knew it was not entirely her own fault, that she had been rebuffed in her own attempts to make contact with her father. The dream came back, and she felt a cold hand clamp her heart. What if he were dead?

She shook her head to clear it, and her hair began to uncoil against her neck. Damn silky stuff. It was only a dream! Ivor’s death had disturbed her; he had been like a father to her, and it was not really surprising that his passing had brought up her fears of loss and abandonment. Besides, Margaret and the Senator had abandoned one another years before. Hadn’t they?

Room 411 was unlike the narrow offices she had spent the morning sitting in. It was furnished with comfortable couches, draped in native textiles, and it smelled of Darkover. There were some fine masks hung against the walls, and she frowned at them. One in particular disturbed her—a woman’s face with flames rising from the scalp in place of hair. She felt herself tremble and forced herself to look away. Margaret frowned at her reaction. She had seen masks before, and they had never given her gooseflesh.

A man rose from behind a carved table. He blinked, his eyes hidden by a pair of spectacles that belonged in a museum. His hair was grizzled, and he sported a patchy beard that looked as if it grew at random along his sunken cheeks. But he smiled, and that gave his ancient features an animation and a friendliness which took away the nasty taste of Major Wintergreen, which she had not known contaminated her mood until it was gone.

“So, you are Margaret Alton! How delightful to meet you! I am Brigham Conover, Head of Ethnology here.”

“Professor Conover.” Margaret extended her hand in a friendly fashion. “I read your paper on the Dry Towns wedding customs. It was one of the few things in the archives about Darkover that wasn’t restricted.” They shook hands and grinned at each other like naughty children looking for mischief. Conover reminded her of Ivor, in his younger and stronger years. Now she was close enough to him, she could see his blue eyes had a lively twinkle and there were deep laugh lines around them.

Rafe cleared his throat. “I’ll be off now, Marguerida. I’ll come back in about an hour, if that’s all right, and get you some lunch.”

“Thank you, Rafe. You’ve been wonderful.”

“Sit down, sit down.” Conover gestured toward one of the couches. “Would you like some tea?”

“I would. My throat feels like ten miles of bad road. The air is so dry in here.” She watched him bustle about, and felt the tension in her body begin to dissipate. Maybe now she could get some straight answers. He brought two steaming mugs and gave her one.

“Now, how can I help you?”

“I intend to complete the work that Professor Davidson and I came to Darkover to do, and every time I turn around, I run into stone walls. At least, that is what it feels like. When we got posted here, I couldn’t get data from the central files, which was very odd. Why is that?”

“You want a simple answer to a complex question. I will do my best.” Conover paused and stared into the vapor rising from his mug. “You know that Darkover is a protected planet, neither a full member of the Federation nor entirely apart. The history behind that is before my time, but I know a few of the facts. Twenty years or so ago there was a rebellion here, in which a number of people died, important people. Your father was part of it. He went away to become the voice of the planet to the Federation, and Regis Hastur started to try to bring Darkover into some sort of agreement with the Federation. That has not been easy—Darkovan culture resists any kind of change. And one of the things that occurred was that a great deal of information about the planet that would ordinarily have been accessible became restricted.”

“Why? Surely Darkover presents no threat to the Federation.”

“There is no way to predict what is perceived as a threat, Miss Alton.”

“Oh. Won’t you call me Margaret, please.”

“Certainly—if you will call me Brigham. I can see by your expression that you are not satisfied. The problem is that there is a great deal about Darkover which remains a mystery to us here at HQ, and mysteries and secrets always create distrust between nations. So, the Federation classified much of what was known about Darkover and chose a waiting game. Those who make such decisions—and let me assure you, most of them have never even been here—believe that eventually Darkover will capitulate, open its doors, reveal its secrets, and become just another Federation member. At the same time, the Darkovans remain obstinate. They don’t want to accept everything Terran and give up the way they have lived for thousands of years. I am in the middle. My job is to be an ethnologist and gather data for use by the Terran Federation.”

“What kind of ‘use’?” She sipped her tea and tasted the honey in it. Margaret was not sure she liked the sound of any of this. With a small start she realized that her father had probably held the Federation at bay all those years, and now that he had resigned, she worried about what might happen. What an idiot she was, not to have paid better attention, to have appreciated that her father might have been doing something worthwhile!

Conover paused a moment before answering. “What they really want is to discover what weaknesses exist in the Darkovan culture which can be manipulated to the advantage of the Federation. I confess I have enormous reservations about wholesale interference with any local culture. I’ve seen the results too often. The history of Terra is a history of cultures destroyed by progress and arrogance.

“So, what do you do? Surely you don’t
suppress
data?” The very idea scandalized the scholar in her.

“That is one sin I have so far avoided, Margaret.” He gave a sharp bark of mirthless laughter. “No, I don’t hide data—I am just very careful what subjects are studied. You see, I am in charge of giving the grants which allow research. So, we learn about Darkovan music and marital customs and other fairly harmless matters, but we do not delve too deeply into the essential Darkovan mysteries.”

“Such as?”

Conover reflected for a moment. “There are no learned treatises on the Alton Gift or the other peculiar talents which have been observed, Margaret.”

“I still don’t understand why.” She was startled. He knew about the Gifts. It seemed as if everywhere she turned, people knew things she didn’t. Well, it didn’t matter. Margaret was not going to get involved in local matters, and as for her supposed Gift—to hell with it. If she had the occasional bit of telepathic interchange, as she had with Rafe earlier, it wasn’t going to bother her. She would keep herself apart, as she always had. She ignored the cold, sad feeling that rose in her chest at that thought.

“There are people within the Federation who would exploit those talents, and I do not believe that that would be in the best interest of Darkover. It is a difficult path to tread.” He gave a little sigh.

“But if it’s such a big secret, how do you
know
about the Alton Gift. I never even heard of it myself, until yesterday.”

“Your father was kind enough to grant me several interviews before I came here, and he was not reticent, once he had taken my measure. That is how I recognized you when you came in—he has a portrait of you in his office.”

“He does?” Her head was beginning to ache again.

“Yes, and he is very proud of you.”

She made a face. “It’s a pity he never mentioned that to me.” She hid her fury as well as she could. Lew was confiding in Conover when he hadn’t had the consideration to tell her things she needed to know about her own heritage. Didn’t he trust her? How could he—they barely knew each other.

Margaret took a long, slow breath and tried to calm herself. She shifted her body on the couch into a more easy position and forced herself to let go of her rage. It was a struggle, and her anger almost won out. She found her eyes were moist with unshed tears, and she blinked them away.

“So, tell me, Brigham, what is the best way for me to go about finishing the work I came here to do?”

“You will need a guide, since you will be going into the Kilghard Hills. It is rough country, and the people are not entirely friendly. You have the advantage that one look at you will convince them you are a native of Darkover. But you will need more than that, I think.”

Margaret laughed. “I have already encountered that—when I went to the clothiers, they acted as if I were royalty. I nearly went nuts. They kept insisting I needed a ball gown for when I went to the Castle, not working clothes. I haven’t owned a ball gown since I got my degree at the University, and I couldn’t understand it, nor why they kept calling me
domna
instead of
mestra.
Then Ivor died, and I was too busy trying to arrange burial to think about it. You can imagine my surprise when I bumped into Rafe Scott yesterday and found out I was some sort of heiress and that I had relatives all over the place. He took me up to Comyn Castle, and I met Lord and Lady Hastur—who both turn out to be some kind of cousins of mine. And then they expected me to stay there, and they were rather hurt when I insisted I was going to finish Ivor’s work. They were very courteous, but I felt as if I were smothering.”

“You are used to the relative freedom women enjoy in the Federation, Margaret. Darkovan women are more confined, and except for the Renunciates, rarely travel.”

“Renunciates? What are those—nuns?”

Conover grinned, and his eyes lit up. “No, not nuns, at least not in the sense that you know that word. The Renunciates Guild, or Free Amazons, are a group of women who have chosen to remove themselves from the restrictions of Darkovan culture. They do not marry, which is almost unthinkable here, and if they bear a child, they do so without giving the child his father’s name. They began by functioning as guides and escorts, and then expanded their role to include educators and midwives. They have become the principal agency of spreading Terran knowledge on Darkover during the past twenty-five years. Remarkable women.”

“Free Amazons? Do they call themselves that?”

“Very astute of you. No, that is a name that has become attached to them—most women on Darkover wouldn’t know an Amazon from a rabbit-horn. The Renunciates are something of a cultural anomaly, independent females in a very patriarchal society. They learn to read and write, which is still unusual on Darkover, and they bow to no man in any matter. Thus the nickname Amazons. They study everything from martial arts to medicine. Several Terrans have even become Renunciates—much to the displeasure of people like Major Wintergreen.”

“You mean they’ve gone native?”

“Essentially. There is something about Darkover that speaks to some of us—I can’t explain it, but it happens. Genetically, Darkovans are human, but they are more than that. They have something extra, and that either attracts you or repels you. If you feel at home on Darkover, there is a good chance you will want to remain here, and that makes people like Thelma very uncomfortable.”

“What about you, Brigham?”

“I have a Darkovan wife and two children. If I were a little younger, I would have gone over the wall. Instead I have chosen to follow the example of Magda Lorne and some others, like Captain Scott, and tried to become a bridge between our worlds. It isn’t easy, but it is, in some ways, the most satisfying thing I have ever done. Now, let’s get down to the business at hand!”

 

By the time Rafe returned, Margaret was ravenous enough to eat the tasteless food in the HQ cafeteria without a fuss. She had learned a great deal from Conover—important things about the danger of forest fires in the Kilghard Hills and the continuing problem of brigands. He had given her copies of maps, and answered most of her immediate questions. It wasn’t until she sat down at the table in the cafeteria that she realized she had not asked him about the Telepathic Council or any details about the mysterious Alton Gift. It was as if she had already entered into the conspiracy of silence that surrounded so many things Darkovan.

“I’ll show you the way to Thendara House,” Rafe announced when she had finished eating. “They will supply you with a guide, and help you get the supplies you will need. By the way, can you ride a horse?”

“As a matter of fact, I can. I had a horse when I was growing up on Thetis, and the only sport I pursued at University was riding. It has been a long time, of course, but I think I can manage.” The mention of horses brought back the memory of riding along the surf, the wind against her face and the smell of salt rising in her breath. “The horses they had at University were pretty tame, and I couldn’t afford to get a better mount.”