Exile's Song (32 page)

Margaret found herself seated between Marilla, at the head of the table, and Mikhail on her left. Rafaella sat across from her, and Dyan sat beside her, an arrangement which pleased neither of them from the sour expressions on their faces.

“Julian, please have the food brought in,” Marilla said.

A few moments later, a servant carried in a tureen of soup, holding it aloft, as if it were a grand occasion. He quite spoiled the effect by rolling his eyes toward Margaret, as if he were very curious about her. A slight clearing of Julian’s throat brought him back to his senses, and he set the tureen down beside their hostess. A second server appeared with a tray with blue and white clay bowls on it, and held it while the first man ladled out the soup, then placed it gravely before each diner.

The vapors rising from the soup smelled wonderful, and it was with some difficulty that Margaret restrained her hunger until Lady Marilla picked up her spoon and began to eat. It was delicious, and it was not until she had nearly emptied the bowl that she really looked at the china itself. It was finely made, and Margaret realized it was the first time she had seen nonwooden eating ware.

“These are beautiful bowls, Lady Marilla. I haven’t seen anything like them on Darkover.” It was a polite thing to say, but Margaret, heartened by the excellent soup, really meant what she said.

“Thank you very much.” The little woman was nearly brimming with pride.

“Oh, no,” Dyan muttered. Margaret glanced at him with surprise. “Now we are in for another . . .”

“This service was made in our own kilns, right here at Ardais,” Marilla interrupted, as if her son had not spoken.

“You will have to forgive my mother. She has an obsession about clay. Such common stuff.” He sniffed, as if he were embarrassed about something.

Margaret was beginning to think that young Lord Dyan needed to mend his manners. She felt Mikhail stir beside her, and gave him a quick glance. He was a little rosy across his fair cheeks now, and was looking at Dyan with a stern expression on his pleasant features. “On the contrary, Lord Dyan, on some planets fine china is valued above jewels or precious metals. I am not an expert, but these bowls are very beautiful, and the pattern is excellent. And original, as well.”

Marilla tried to disguise her delight and failed, for her face was alight with pleasure. It took several years off her age, for some of the lines in her brow smoothed, and her mouth relaxed as it had not before. “It is just an old carving pattern, but I am pleased you like it. You must have eaten off much better pieces than this, surely, being the Senator’s daughter.”

Margaret laughed and shook her head so that a few wisps of hair escaped the butterfly clasp nestled at the nape of her neck. Rafaella had dressed it for her, but the silky stuff still had its usual bad habit of slipping out of any restraint. It tickled her cheeks in a maddening way. “Perhaps my father has, but for the most part I have dined off unbreakable plastic horrors—when I was not eating off of leaves on some strange world.” She put down her spoon, realizing that if she ate another drop she would be too full for anything else.

“Leaves?” Dyan stared at her across the table, then dropped his eyes. “Is that some new custom in the Empire?”

“No,” Margaret replied calmly. “Despite my father’s position, I have not moved in the more rarified circles of the Federation. That is because I have spent most of my adult life going to places in the galaxy where people had not yet invented, or did not wish to invent, such things as fine china. A broad leaf is a good plate, for you do not have to wash up after supper.” She could sense the mild disbelief around the table, except from Rafaella. But at least she heard no thoughts, and that was a relief.

Julian Monterey took a seat beside Dyan Ardais as the next course was brought in—fresh fish lightly battered and fried to perfection. Margaret was glad that the heads had been removed—she hated to eat anything that looked back at her. The servant filled glass goblets with wine, and she sipped a little. It was nicely dry, a good accompaniment to the fish, and she wondered where on Darkover it was warm enough to cultivate grapes. She almost asked, but it was too great an effort.

There was no conversation for several minutes, as everyone concentrated on removing the small bones, then eating the delicate flesh. Margaret was starting to become rather full, and decided her stomach must have shrunk during her illness, for normally she had a healthy appetite, when she remembered to eat. Often she got so involved with her work that she skipped a few meals, then made up for it later. She let her mind wander in the stillness, and was becoming quite relaxed with the wine and the warmth of the room.

Mikhail shifted in his chair beside her, and she raised her eyes from her food to look at him. He looked back, his eyes narrowed and almost hostile. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, clearly deciding to do something that he thought he should not. “So have you come to throw my aged parents out of their home?”

Margaret was so startled that she nearly dropped her fork. “What? Why would I do that?” She could sense he was in some distress, some conflict, but she had no idea what was causing it. She hated arguments, and usually withdrew at the first hint of a quarrel, unless it was one involving the Terran bureaucracy. Like most people in the Federation, she felt she had a duty to thwart bureaucrats whenever possible.

For once, however, she had no desire to retreat from provocation. In fact, Margaret decided, she almost
wanted
to argue with this stranger. All her suppressed anger seemed to want to find a focus, something to hit or snarl at. And, for no reason she could discern, it felt quite safe to dispute him. It was an intriguing sensation, as if he were not quite a stranger, but someone she almost knew. Ridiculous, of course. She wanted to like him, and she could not imagine why. She felt a warmth toward him, for a moment, and then a rush of chill.
You will keep yourself to yourself—no matter what!

“Armida is yours, by rights, though my father has been maintaining it for years and years.”

Margaret was too distracted by the sudden intrusion in her mind to answer at first. She felt cold all over, cold and threatened, though she was not sure if it was her sense of the alien presence within her, or the man bristling beside her. Both, perhaps. There was something a little intimidating about his look, for he was staring directly into her face, against good manners. Margaret dropped her eyes, because there was something in his that tugged at her heart in a very disturbing way.

She lifted them again, after a moment, unable to continue to look at her lap any longer. Who was this fellow, and why did she feel as if she knew him? How dare he pull at her heart that way—she was much too old to have her head turned by a handsome profile and clear, blue eyes.

“Your father?” she sputtered at last. “Pardon me, Lord Mikhail, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about. Or do I call you Lord Hastur-Lanart?”

He seemed quite puzzled by her reply, as if her ignorance had taken him off guard. Mikhail shifted his shoulders, as if marshaling himself.
Damn! She has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen! And that jaw—never thought I’d see a square jaw that looked so fetching on a woman. She probably thinks I am a complete oaf—and I have no one to blame but myself!

“You really don’t know, do you? Amazing.” He turned his gaze away, took a deep breath, and continued, as if reciting a lesson which he hated. “I am the youngest son of Gabriel Lanart-Alton, who is kin to your father, and Javanne Hastur, who is elder sister to Lord Regis Hastur. I have two brothers, Gabriel and Rafael, and the three of us are called the ‘Lanart Angels,’ because we have the names of those
cristoforo
archangels.” As he said this a self-mocking edge of sarcasm colored his voice. “We also have two sisters, Ariel and Liriel.” He stopped and glanced at her, expecting some reply.

“How nice for you. I always wished for brothers and sisters. Are your sisters angels as well?” Margaret felt like an idiot as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but she still could not make any sense of what he had told her. She was aware of Lady Marilla beside her, continuing to consume her fish in dainty mouthfuls, and Dyan, watching her with bemusement. Only Rafaella seemed to be aware of anything out of the ordinary, for she gave Margaret a look with lifted brows, and a quick grin of reassurance, as if to say, “Don’t worry.”

Mikhail chuckled, and she felt his tension ease. “Well, my mother wouldn’t say that
any
of us were in the least angelic.”

“Mothers rarely do,” Lady Marilla put in dryly. She cast a look at her son, as if unhappy that he was not talking to Margaret, and letting Mikhail hold her attention.

“I still don’t understand anything,” Margaret complained, starting to feel both tired and a little annoyed at her dinner companions. “Should I be impressed, awed, or just plain humble?”

“Oh, all of those would do nicely,” Dyan said somewhat maliciously.

Lady Marilla silenced her son with a single glance. “I did not realize that you knew so little about the Altons, Marguerida.”

“Little? Sometimes I am not sure I know that much!” She was rewarded by mild laughter.

“Confess it, you have made a muddle of things, Mik,” Dyan offered, ignoring his mother.

“I suppose I have.”

“Why don’t you begin at the beginning, then,” Margaret said, taking pity on the man. She could sense his embarrassment, and she had not forgotten that he liked her eyes. No one had ever admired them before, and she found she rather enjoyed being admired. It was an odd feeling, though, and she noticed the restless stirring of the cold presence within her.

“Oh, Lord! The beginning?” Mikhail paused, gathering his thoughts, and she waited for him to continue. “I don’t really know what I can say.”

She could feel his conflict, though his thoughts were not clear enough to make any impression on her mind. Margaret found she was glad of that, since there was something about Mikhail that she decided she would rather not be privy to. “You accused me of planning to throw your aging parents out into the snow, like some landlord in a melodrama. Then you trot out your lineage, as if that would explain everything. Well, it doesn’t—so I am still waiting to hear whatever it is you want to say.” She was trying to be calm and reasonable, but she was still feeling too weak to keep her voice from rising shrilly. Rafaella looked at her, a little alarmed, and started to speak.

Before she could, however, Mikhail asked, “But what are you planning to do about Armida?” as if it were a question she could answer.

“Why should I do anything about Armida at all? And why does everyone assume I am going to claim something that doesn’t even belong to me? My father is still very much alive, as far as I know, so Armida is his business, not mine.”

“He gave up his own claim, but not yours,” Mikhail interrupted.

“You may call yourself an angel, but your manners are hardly angelic, Lord Mikhail. What would I do with it? I know almost nothing of agriculture or horse breeding. I am a Scholar of the University, not the interloper everyone insists on making me out to be.” She felt her face flame in her fury at being misunderstood. It was not fair.

“Forgive me if I disbelieve you,
damisela.
”
I want to believe her, but how can I? And Father will not thank me for looking out for his interests—I can’t do anything right! She simply cannot be as ignorant as she pretends—that is impossible!

“You can believe anything you damn well please,” she hissed. Margaret could feel Lady Marilla’s eyes on her, watching her in a manner that seemed more suspicious than solicitous. Her head was starting to throb again, and her stomach churned, though whether it was from the lingering effects of her strange illness or from trying to talk to Mikhail she could not decide. If her legs had been steadier, she would have gotten up and walked out of the room, and dealt with the consequences later.

The rage boiled in her body, and she tried to silence it. Margaret pictured her father’s face in her mind, trying to direct her anger at him, since she believed he was the author of most of her troubles, but she failed. Instead, she saw Mikhail’s fair countenance, deliberately being impossible, for his own reasons. She experienced a desire to punch him right along his strong jaw, just to relieve her mixed feelings of attraction and repulsion.

Before anyone spoke again, there was a heavy knocking at the front door, and Julian rose calmly and left the dining room. In the silence which followed his departure, Lady Marilla leaped into the breach almost anxiously. “Do you think our china would find a market in worlds where people are eating off leaves, Marguerida?” There was something in Marilla’s voice which suggested that she thought Margaret had been pulling her leg on the matter of the leaves, a hint of humor she had not glimpsed in her hostess before.

“It is very beautiful and well made, and there is a great demand for such things on many worlds,” she answered. It was a relief to be able to understand a question and make a rational answer. Really, these people were very peculiar. What could she expect? They knew virtually nothing about her except that her father was Lewis Alton, and that she was technically the inheritor of a Domain. Of course they would not believe she didn’t want the thing—it was out of their realm of experience.

Margaret could hear two voices in the entry, Julian’s and a woman’s. She tried not to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. The skin at the nape of her neck started prickling, and she was certain that the newcomer was someone she wanted to avoid.

Julian returned, accompanied by a small woman robed in a travel-stained cloak over a crimson gown which seemed to throb in the light of the dining room. Despite her diminutive stature, she had an air of enormous authority about her. Her eyes swept the room, coming to rest on Margaret. Their eyes met for an instant, and Margaret flinched.