The Shattered Chain (17 page)

“Help me think of a way!”

I know she can do it, if she will. She is a law to herself, this lady of the Comyn, she will do what she thinks right and no one will forbid her. …

Rohana said to Hastur, “I told you this girl had spirit and strength. I will not disobey Gabriel—it is not worth the argument—but I will help her, if I can.” She turned to Magda, and said, “You would be willing to go yourself into the Hellers? With winter coming on? Many men might shrink from such a journey, my girl.” Again she spoke as if to a younger woman of her own caste. Magda set her chin, and said, “Lady, I was born near Caer Donn; I am not afraid of the mountains, nor of their worst weather.”

Montray said harshly, “Don’t be a damned fool, Magda! You’re supposed to be the expert on women’s customs on Darkover; but even
I
know that no woman can travel alone and unprotected! You may have guts enough—or damnfoolishness enough—but it’s impossible for you to travel alone, here on this planet You tell her, my Lady,” he appealed to Rohana “It would be impossible! Damn it, I admire her spirit, too, but there are things women just can’t do here!”

“You are right,” Rohana said. “Our customs make it impossible for a woman. An ordinary woman, that is. But there is one way, and only one, in which a woman can travel alone without danger and scandal. The Free Amazons alone do not accept the customs that bind other women.”

Magda said, “I don’t know much about the Free Amazons. I’ve heard the name.” She looked straight into Rohana’s eyes, and said, “If you think I can do it …”

“Once before, I employed a Free Amazon on a mission no man would undertake. It was a scandal, at the time.” She looked at Lorill with a mischievous small smile, as if, Magda thought, she were evoking a shared memory. “So it will evoke no great scandal—or if it does, no more scandal than I can bear—when it is known that I have sent a Free Amazon to Sain Scarp to negotiate in my place for my son’s release. And if Rumal di Scarp should chance to hear it rumored that my son Kyril is safe at Ardais, then he will only think that he has captured instead some kinsman or fosterling of our house, whom we are redeeming out of kindness or a bad conscience; and he will sneer at us for being so gullible, but he will take the ransom anyway and be glad to get it.

“I think I know enough of the Free Amazons to make it possible for you to pass as one, unchallenged. But there may be dangers by the way, child; can you defend yourself?”

Magda said, “Everyone in Intelligence—man and woman alike—is trained in unarmed combat and knife fighting.”

Rohana nodded. “I had heard about this,” she said, and Magda wished she knew
how
this information had come to Darkovan ears.
Probably the same way we learn things about them!

“Go back, now,” Rohana said. “Arrange for the journey, and for the ransom, and come to me at dawn tomorrow morning. I will see that you have the proper clothing and necessities, and that you know how to carry yourself as a Free Amazon.”

Montray burst out, “Are you really going to do this harebrained thing, Magda? Free Amazons! Aren’t they lady soldiers?”

Rohana laughed. “It is easy to see you know nothing about them,” she said. “Indeed, it is comforting to think there is something you Terrans have not managed to discover about us!” Magda had to grin ruefully at that. “Yes, many of them are mercenary soldiers; others are trackers, hunters, horse breakers, blacksmiths; midwives, dairy-women, confectioners, bakers, ballad-singers and cheese-sellers! They work at any honest trade; for one to serve as a messenger and negotiate in a family feud is completely respectable, as such things go.”

“I don’t give a damn whether it’s respectable or not,” Magda told Montray, and Rohana smiled approvingly.

“Good,” she said. “Then it is settled.” She gave Magda her hand, with a kindly smile. “It is a pity, but you will have to cut that lovely hair,” she said.

Chapter

EIGHT

Magda woke in the gray dawn, hearing the thin patter of sleet on the roof of the travel-shelter. It was her seventh night on the road, and until now the weather had been fine.

She had till midwinter-night. With anything like reasonable weather, she had ample time. But could anyone expect reasonable weather in the Hellers, at this season?

From the far end of the shelter she could hear the soft stamping and the rustling breaths of her saddle horse and the pack animal, an antlered beast from the Kilghard Hills, better suited to the mountain weather than any horse. She wondered what time it was; it was still too dark to see.

It did not occur to her to regret—or even to think about—her chronometer. Like all Terrans allowed to work undercover on any planet anywhere in the Empire, she had undergone a long and intense conditioning, designed to make it virtually impossible for her to act in any way not consonant with her assigned character; and there was no item, in all her luggage and gear, of off-world manufacture. This was a habit of years; everyone in Intelligence learned the almost hypnotic mechanisms which meant that the moment she left the Trade City, Magdalen Lorne of Linguistics was gone, left wholly behind her; even her name was gone, packed away in a very small corner of her unconscious mind.
Magdalen
had no precise Darkovan equivalent; when she was a small girl in the mountains near Caer Donn, her Darkovan playmates had called her
Margali.

She turned over restlessly in her sleeping bag, raising nervous fingers to her shorn head. It felt cold, strange, immodest.

Lady Rohana, in the long briefing session that had preceded her departure, had been sympathetic about that, too.

“I traveled once, in disguise, with a band of Free Amazons,” she said, “and I had to cut my hair; I can still remember the shock I felt. I remember that I cried, and how they laughed at me. It was worse for me, probably, than for you: you are accountable to no one, but I knew how angry my husband would be when he knew.”

Magda had asked, “And was he angry?” and Rohana smiled, a reminiscent smile. “Terribly. It was already done, so there was nothing he could do about it; but I felt his anger for almost a year, till it had grown to what he called a respectable length.”

Magda heard the sleet beginning to abate and crawled out of her sleeping bag. Shivering in the fire-less hut, she dressed quickly in the clothing Lady Rohana had provided: loose trousers, a long-sleeved and high-necked under tunic of embroidered linen, a fur-lined over tunic and riding-cloak. She had even measured Magda’s foot and sent a servant to buy boots in the marketplace. Magda laced the high boots and led her animals outside, feeding them from the stacked fodder in the nearby shed and slipping the prescribed amount of coins into the padlocked box there. She led them one by one to the watering trough, breaking the ice there with the small hammer on her saddle. While they munched and drank, she went inside, quickly made a small fire and boiled some water, stirring it into the precooked, powdered mixture of grains and nuts that made a kind of instant porridge. Mixed with a few shreds of dried fruit, it was edible when you were used to it.

The ransom was safely hidden in her saddlebags, converted into the copper bars that were the standard Darkovan currency. In Terran exchange it was no more than a couple of months’ salary for a good agent; they probably wouldn’t even bother to take it out of Peter’s “hazard” pay.

Why am I doing this? Peter’s a grown man, able to take his own risks. I’m not his guardian. I’m not even his wife anymore. I don’t love him that much, not anymore, not now. So why?
But she had no answer, and it nagged at the back of her mind as she set off down the trail. She stopped at the indicator post near the travel-shelter, locating the next three shelters along this trail. One was at a reasonable distance for a large caravan with heavily laden pack animals; a second was located at a good day’s ride for a party traveling at an easy pace but without much gear; the third was about at the limit of a long day’s hard ride for a solitary traveler.
Maybe I can sleep there tonight …
She turned from the post and started along the trail, feeling a faint unease she could not identify; then it came to her.

I’m out of character, reading the travel-post. Most Darkovan women can’t read
—Literacy even among men on Darkover was by no means universal, though most men could spell out a placard or scrawl their own names; among women it was extremely rare, and her small Darkovan playmates at Caer Donn had been astonished and slightly shocked—and a little envious—when they discovered that Margali could read, that her own father had taught her.
Out of character. Damn it, this whole trip is out of character.

Magda clucked to her horse, and started along the trail. Rohana had warned her: “I traveled with the Free Amazons, but not as one of them; I do not deceive myself that I know all of their ways and customs. If I were you, I would avoid any meeting with real Amazon groups; but most of the folk in the hills where you will travel know
nothing at all
about them. So no one will question your disguise, if you are careful.”

And in seven days she had not been challenged, though once she had had to share the travel shelter with two men, traders from the far hills. By law and custom, these shelters, put up centuries ago, and kept inspected and stocked even in wartime by the border patrols, were sacred places of neutrality, and must be shared by all comers; anything else would have condemned other travelers to die of cold and exposure. By law, even blood feuds were suspended in the shelters, as Magda had heard was the custom during forest fires. The men had glanced briefly at Magda’s short hair and Amazon clothing, spoken a few formally courteous words, and ignored her entirely after that.

But since then she had met no one; the advanced season had sent most travelers home to their own firesides. The clouds had thinned and gone, and the great red sun of Darkover, which some poet in the Terran Zone had christened The Bloody Sun, was rising between the peaks, flooding the high snowfields with flaming crimson and gold. As she rode up into the pass, it seemed that a sea of flame bathed the high snowcaps, a brilliance of solitude that exhilarated and excited her.

But the sunrise subsided, and there was nothing but the lonely silence of the trail. Silence, and too much time to think, to ask herself again and again:
Why am I doing this? Am I still in love with the bastard?

Pride, maybe, that a man who shared my bed
—
however briefly
—
should be abandoned and left to die, with no one to help him?

Or maybe, when we were growing up in Caer Donn, just the few of us among all the Darkovan children, we absorbed
their
codes,
their
ethics. Loyalty, kinship’s dues. To the Empire, Peter is only an employee, expendable. To me, to any Darkovan, that’s an outrageous notion, an obscenity.

She crossed the path before the sun was more than an hour high in the sky, her ears aching with the altitude, and began to descend into the next valley. At noon she stopped at a little mountain village and indulged herself by buying a mug of hot soup and a few fried cakes at a food-stall. Some curious children gathered around, and Magda guessed, from their eagerness, that they saw very few outsiders; she gave them some sweets from her saddlebags, and lingered, resting her animals before the climb to the next pass, enjoying her first taste of fresh food since she had left Thendara.

They were all curious as kittens; they asked where she had come from, and when she told them “Thendara,” they stared as if she had said “From world’s end.” She supposed that to these children, never out of their own hills, Thendara
was
the world’s end. But when they asked her business, she smiled and said it was a secret of her patroness. Lady Rohana had given her permission to use her name. “I will give you my safe-conduct, too, under my seal. In the foothills there are many who owe service to Gabriel and to me.” She had also cautioned her against any but the most casual contact with genuine Amazons, but had advised her that if she met any by chance, she would be asked for her Guild-house, and for the name of the woman who had received her oath. “In this case, you may say Kindra n’ha Mhari; she is dead these three years”—and a fleeting sadness had touched Rohana’s eyes—”but she was my dear friend, and I do not think she would grudge this use of her name. But if the Gods are kind you will get to Sain Scarp, and, hopefully, back again, without using it.”