Exile's Song (21 page)

Rafe seemed amused. “Did you go in for dressage?”

Margaret shook her head. “No, I did some jumping—and a lot of cross-country racing. I love to give a horse its head. It’s like flying!”

“Agreed. But don’t try too much of that in the Kilghards. The ground is too rough for racing—though they used to have proper races at Armida at Midsummer, when I was a boy. The Armida horses are famous on Darkover—worth a king’s ransom.”

She barely heard him. “I’m finished. Let’s go. I can’t stand being in here another minute! The air smells funny, and it makes my throat hurt.”

 

Thendara House was a large building a few blocks beyond the boundaries of the Terran Sector. From the outside it did not look special, and certainly not like what Conover described as a “cultural anomaly.” It looked exactly like the houses on either side. It was constructed of local stone, and it gleamed in the afternoon light, a plain, strong building with no windows on the ground floor that faced the street. Only the plaque above the doorbell gave any indication that it was more than a private home.

Rafe took her as far as the stoop, bade her farewell, and patted her on the shoulder again. Margaret watched him as he walked away, his back straight in his dark uniform, and tried not to feel forlorn. As he moved away, she had the sense that he was hiding some strong feeling, a yearning of some sort, which was puzzling. Surely he did not want to go off and help her with her research! She wrenched herself out of her confused emotions, and rang the doorbell.

The door was answered almost immediately by a cheerful-looking woman in her late teens or early twenties. She did not bow or curtsy, as had most of the Darkovans Margaret had encountered so far, but looked the visitor directly in the eye, taking in her Terran garb with a swift glance. The young woman’s hair was short, in contrast to the other women Margaret had seen. She had a rag in one hand, and a smudge of dust darkened part of her forehead. She looked happy and well-fed and friendly as a pup. It did not go with Margaret’s mental image of people who called themselves Renunciates, which made her smile slightly. She was making too many assumptions—which a Scholar must never do.

“I have come to see about hiring a guide,” Margaret said. She wished Rafe had not taken himself off so quickly, then reminded herself sternly that she was on her own, and that was how she wanted it. She didn’t need anyone, did she?

“Come in,” the girl answered. “I’ll go find
Mestra
Adriana for you—anything to get out of dusting! I joined the Renunciates because I wanted to be independent, but I am still doing housework.”

“Technology has never solved the problem of dust,” Margaret answered dryly.

“You mean Terranan women do housework? I always thought they had machines to do everything.”

“No, not quite everything.”

“I’ll put you in the parlor until I find Mother. I’m not really supposed to answer the door, but I was right here, and it seemed silly to wait for one of the others.” She ushered Margaret into a pleasant room and hurried away, leaving her to puzzle over why the girl was not supposed to open the front door.

Margaret looked around the room while she waited. It was well furnished, if a little shabby. There were thick rugs on the stone floor, deep chairs with upholstery rubbed shiny by use, and on the wall, there were some posters. Margaret examined these with interest, for they were clearly made on a printer’s press with movable type. The ink was heavier in some places than in others, and the paper had never seen the innards of a box. She looked curiously at an announcement of a midwifery class, and realized how much she took for granted that childbearing was a simple matter. She noticed another poster. It described the history of the Bridge Society, founded by someone called both Magda Lorne and Margali n’ha Ysabet. She remembered that Conover had mentioned Magda Lorne, and wondered if she were still around. She might be able to answer some of Margaret’s questions. Deep in her reading, she almost did not hear a gentle cough behind her.

A woman in her forties stood in the parlor. She had dark hair and green eyes and a chin that spoke of determination. She was dressed in dark green, and she looked both friendly and formidable. “Welcome to Thendara House. I am Adriana n’ha Marguerida. I understand from Jillian that you wish to hire a guide.” She spoke Terran as if it twisted her tongue.

Margaret answered her in
casta.
“I am Margaret Alton, and, yes, I wish to find a guide to take me into the Kilghards. I have all the necessary permits and papers and . . .”

“Papers! Pah! Where would the Terranan be without their permits? They think a bit of paper means something, as if a person could be measured by it. What foolishness! You must excuse me—I get very weary of forms and passes and permits. And tact is not one of my virtues. My poor mother often remarked upon it.”

Margaret warmed to this forthright woman. “I am not very tactful, either. I have just spent the morning at HQ trying to work my way through the layers of paperwork, and I share your distaste for it.”

Mestra
Adriana nodded and smiled. “They don’t seem to realize that Darkover got along just fine for centuries without a thousand clerks making pieces of nonsense called permits. Now, sit down and tell me why you want to go the Kilghards.” She paused while Margaret took a seat. “Alton?” She looked at Margaret intently for a moment. “You are not a Terran.”

“No, I am not. I was born here, but I left when I was very young.”
Not so young I don’t remember the smells and colors of Darkover,
she thought grimly. The House smelled good, of woodsmoke and rich stews. It smelled right, as the house on Thetis never had. Even when Dio cooked, it had never smelled quite this nice.

“I see.”
Mestra
Adriana studied her again, and Margaret was sure that very little escaped those penetrating green eyes.

Margaret stifled a sigh and prepared for another frustrating recital of her parentage. But
Mestra
Adriana asked no personal questions, thus belying her claim of tactlessness. “You speak the language well,” was all she said.

“Thank you. It seems to come back to me in great lumps. And sometimes I still don’t understand half of what people are saying.” She leaned back into the armchair.

“Now, what is your purpose in going to the Kilghards?”
Alton! Is she going back to Armida? What a nosy old woman I am!

Margaret heard these unspoken thoughts quite clearly, and felt a blush rise along her throat. She felt as if she were prying. And, worse, she felt as if she had no control over it. Her stomach clenched around the dreadful meal from the cafeteria, and she wondered if she were going to be sick.

Armida. Rafe had mentioned that it was the Alton stronghold, and that she was the heir to Alton. Likely it was in the middle of some village where there were lots of Altons, and everyone spoke in riddles. Even if they had the most beautiful horses in the civilized galaxy, she had no intention of going there! She brought herself back to the task at hand.

“I was sent to Darkover by University to do research and collect music—folk songs and ballads. I came with my mentor, Professor Ivor Davidson, but he died suddenly. I intend to complete his work. We had planned to spend some time here in Thendara, then go into the back country. I decided that I want to take advantage of the season, and do the rural work first, since, if what I have been told is accurate, travel will become more difficult after the summer is over. The people at HQ tried to talk me out of it, and there was this Major Wintergreen who decided it was too dangerous. But I got the things I needed anyhow.”
Thanks to Rafe! Did I remember to tell him how grateful I was?

Adriana chuckled. “Dear old Thelma! She is a prickly one. She has done everything she could to destroy the work the Bridge Society has done. A most dislikable female, to be sure.”

Margaret hesitated for a moment. “She certainly seemed quite disagreeable to me, although we were only together for a brief time.” She decided that it was a good thing Rafe had intervened when he did, because she would probably have lost her temper completely.

“She gets worse with further acquaintance, believe me. Folk music? Odd sort of reason to go tramping around the hills,
Domna
Alton.” There was a tone of disbelief in her voice, and beneath it, suspicion and wariness.

“Not if you are a musicologist,
Mestra
Adriana. To me it seems like the most logical thing in the world.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes. I have been on several planets with my mentor, studying the musical forms of the local people.”

“How very peculiar. I don’t think I will ever understand these things. We had a woman here, a time back, who was wanting to know all about the Renunciates for some book she was going to write. Said she was an anthropologist, but I thought she was looking for scandal. I don’t know if she ever wrote her book—she went away after a while and I never found out what happened to her. It just seems very impractical to me.”

“I am a Scholar, and collecting apparently useless facts is what I do. Besides, I love music, and I love my work.”

“You must, if you dared the dragon Wintergreen in her den and escaped to tell the tale. How did you manage it?” The green eyes glinted with intense curiousity.

“I had some help from Captain Rafael Scott, who is a kinsman of mine.”

Yes, he would be.
“Very well. Let me see if I can think of someone suitable to accompany you.”

Margaret heard the thought and the spoken words at the same moment. Did everyone on Darkover walk around with genealogies rattling in their brains? She stood up, restless from too much time sitting in chairs, and returned to reading the Bridge Society history on the wall while
Mestra
Adriana cogitated. She was a little surprised that the woman did not consult a list, and realized that despite the printed posters on the wall, this was not a culture that relied on the written word so much as on memory.

“Ah! Rafaella is just the person!”
Besides, she needs the work. Maybe going about with a sober-sides like this young woman will settle her down a bit.

Margaret heard the underthoughts as clearly as if they were spoken, and wondered why the unknown woman needed settling down. “Is she a good guide?”

“Certainly. It would not reflect well on the Guild if I gave you someone who could not do the work. But I chose her because she sings fairly well and will perhaps understand your work better than some of our other people. She was born in the Kilghards, and has kinsmen all over the hills.”

“That sounds good,” Margaret answered. “Where do I find her?”

“Go to the Horse Market tomorrow morning, and she will be waiting for you.”

“How will I know her?” Margaret felt anxious again, having no idea where the Horse Market was. Oh, well, she could probably get someone to show her the way. Maybe young Geremy would be pleased to escape for a morning.

“We have a stall in the Horse Market—just ask for the Guild booth. You won’t be able to miss her. Rafaella n’ha Liriel is unmistakable.”

W
hen Margaret left Thendara House, she felt tired, but not as weary as she had during the previous days. She decided to visit Threadneedle Street on her way back to Master Everard’s and see if either Ethan or Geremy could take her to the Horse Market the following morning. She now knew her way around much of central Thendara fairly well and did not hesitate in finding her way to the clothiers.

Aaron MacEwan was standing in the middle of his shop supervising the cutting of a garment by one of his apprentices, and Manuella was rolling up a bolt when Margaret came in. They both greeted her eagerly, with smiles and offers of tea, and she felt warmly welcomed after the sterile corridors of HQ. She told them she was going into the Kilghards, and they exchanged a look which spoke volumes.

“You will need some warm garments for that,
domna.
And that dress we sent you will not do for the hills. You will want a riding skirt, and a heavy tunic.” He glanced with a measure of distain at her Terran garments.

Margaret was rather startled at this, because she had not really thought through the matter. She had planned to ride in her wretched uniform, hated though it was. So, before she knew it, she was bustled into the robing room by Manuella and offered a fine garment that covered her limbs but would allow her to ride astride. It was dark brown, very generously cut, warm, and extremely comfortable. A tunic of a paler brown slipped over her head, and once more she had the sensation of correctness she had felt when she touched the earth of Darkover at Ivor’s grave.

She concluded her transactions, and asked if one of the boys could show her the way to the Horse Market early the following morning. Manuella promised that Ethan would be at Master Everard’s at first light. She gathered her purchases and set off for Music Street, well content with a good day’s work.