Exile's Song Read online

  Geremy studied her thoughtfully. “Are you Terranan?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Ethan said, “Anyone can tell she is not Terranan.”

  “No, I come from a world called Thetis,” she told them. “A lovely world full of waterfalls and great oceans. We live on islands where the winds blow warm and smell of salt and flowers.” Margaret had a sharp wave of homesickness for the warmth of Thetis. It surprised her by its intensity. She found herself thinking of her father, staring out at the rolling surf with a goblet clutched in his single hand. In her mind, he turned his dark eyes away from the sea and looked at her, almost as if he felt her presence across the light-years which lay between them. She shook herself back into the present. Born on Darkover, yes, but the home of her heart was still Thetis.

  “I don’t even know which star it is in this sky. I have visited many worlds, though. I am a musician.”

  “You have been on lots of planets? Please, let me carry your bag. Would you—could you—tell me everything?” Ethan grinned up at her, and was transformed, his face aglow with interest.

  Margaret surrendered her grips, forgetting her earlier fears in her exhaustion. She knew this wanderlust; sometimes it seemed to be some universal drive among the children of Terra. She had a touch of it herself, despite her loathing of the travel itself. At first she spoke haltingly, groping for the right words. Then she had a sudden leap of mind, as if she had discovered an unexpected cache of language lurking in the recesses of her mind, as if some barrier were breached. It was amazing, because she was using words which were not in the limited vocabulary she had learned from the disks. It was not the words which startled her as much as the rhythm of them which seemed to come so easily to her lips now.

  After a few minutes, Margaret realized that she had more of a vocabulary than could be explained by living on Darkover for her first five years. This was not a child’s lexicon, but that of an adult. At last, she understood that she must have heard Dio and the Old Man talking in the night—the walls of Thetis homes are thin and light, to let the breezes rush through them—while she slept, and learned the sweet rhythm of the language. It seemed likely that if she had had occasion to use it before, she would have been chattering like a magpie. Magpie. That was one of Ivor’s names for her, a way he teased her out of her solemnity when she was in the dumps.

  All these thoughts dashed across her mind as she spoke of Thetis, of the University world of Coronis, where she had gone to school, of Rigel Nine, and the Congress of the Confederation, where her father helped make the laws governing the Terran Federation. She told them about Relegan, the last planet she and Ivor had visited, and about anything else that rose in her tired brain.

  The boy was so serious Margaret was not even tempted to “yarn” him. He fired questions at her concerning metals and mechanics, and she was glad for the first time that “Basic Technology of the Big Ships” was a required first-year course everywhere. Enlightened self-interest, of course. The entire Federation staffed its ships by feeding the curiosity of children like Ethan. She did not tell him that he could never leave his world without the tools of reading and writing which the simple signs outside shops led her to suspect would never be available to him.

  The streets seemed a little wider here, the structures made of roughcut stone. Wooden doors were painted brightly, and there was a smell of damp stone and animal droppings and garbage. They passed an eating house, and the smell of the food was tantalizing. Margaret realized that she was now very hungry. The smell was familiar, too. She could almost name the dish, though she had not eaten it since she was tiny. Oh, well, they said the mid-brain—and the sense of smell was a very primitive part of that—never forgot anything. Perhaps it was true.

  She ignored her hunger and her tiredness and forced herself to go on amusing, or instructing, the boy. Professor Davidson stumbled along beside her, listening mutely. Geremy had somehow managed to get him to surrender his precious guitar, and now also lent him his arm.

  “Margaret, are we going much farther? I seem to be a bit short of breath.”

  “I don’t know. Ethan, how close are we to Music Street?”

  “Only one more street, vai domna.” This was a new honorific. She vaguely knew it meant something like “Highly Honored Lady” and was the same one that would be used to a Princess or a Keeper. What the devil is a Keeper? She felt as if the answer were just on the edge of her consciousness, something vitally important which she could not seize in her near exhaustion.

  “Just a little farther, Ivor.” She spoke in Standard for the professor’s benefit, then turned back to Geremy and spoke in her much improved Darkovan. “It will be good to be out of the cold and rain,” she added, for an icy drizzle had begun in the last few minutes. “We just spent the last year on a very warm world, and it is hard for him, you see.” This place seems colder than Zandru’s hells . . . He has whips or something, doesn’t he?

  The half memories were maddening now. Margaret could no longer tell what she was remembering and what she had picked up from the language and culture disk. She gave it up and wished her mind would let go until she had had some good food and sleep. “It seems very late. Will your parents be worried?” The lads looked young to her, and the dark shadows of the streets seemed alive with potential dangers.

  “Oh, no. Cloth Street, where we live, is only a few minutes away. It’s not yet even an hour after sundown, when we have to be indoors.”

  “And you, Ethan?”

  “I live next door to Geremy; our fathers are brothers. Hoy, we all know each other’s name. Except you, domna.”

  “True. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Margaret Alton.” She spoke her last name almost as if it was spelled Elton, in the way it was pronounced on the vid or at University, the way she had become used to saying it for years.

  “Alton. That’s a good old name.” He spoke the name the way her father had, and Margaret felt a kind of thrill at hearing it said correctly. Ethan also seemed to be very impressed with it, and she wondered if he knew her father was the Senator from Darkover. It seemed likely. She was just too tired to fuss over it.

  I knew she was comynara—I just knew it!

  The words whipped into her mind like a needle, startling her. That sort of thing had happened a few times before, especially when she was tired, but never with such clarity and distinction. Margaret looked at both boys, but she could not tell which one had thought the words, and she supposed it didn’t matter. “Is it much farther?”

  “No,” Ethan said. “Here we are.” They turned the corner into a narrow street, where signs with pictures of various musical instruments hung outside nearly every house.

  “The Street of Musicians,” he announced, making a little bow, and waving his hand like a magician. He was so pleased with himself that, in spite of her exhaustion, Margaret laughed, and the lad laughed with her.

  3

  There were houses on either side of the street, and the doors of most were painted with pictures of a bewildering variety of musical instruments. Margaret identified a kind of harp, an assortment of wooden flutes, and something vaguely like a violin. Its shape was different, more elongated, enough to be sure the tone would be subtly different than anything she knew. The street was poorly lit by flickering torches and the moon, but she could see wood shavings and small pieces of stuff scattered around on the rough cobbles. In a less damp climate, it would have been a terrible fire hazard, but she doubted the debris ever dried out enough to be dangerous.

  It smelled good. The woods gave off pleasant fragrances, the mist which dampened the air was clean, and food was cooking behind the brightly painted doors. These were such homey scents, after days in the confines of the ship, that she felt ready to weep from the pleasure of it. Margaret could not remember ever reacting so strongly on any previous planetfall, and it was a little unnerving. Not unpleasant, precisely, but disquieting, as if there were memories hovering just out of mind, wisps she could not quite grasp.

&nbsp
; From behind one door, or perhaps from the big shuttered window beside it, came the sound of a group rehearsing with stringed instruments. Someone hit a very sour note; Margaret winced. As if in answer, a huge bass voice roared angrily.

  “That’s Master Rodrigo,” Geremy informed her, his earlier formality forgotten. “He’s a terrible bully, but they say he’ll be craft master after Master Everard, because he’s a better musician than Everard’s son Erald. He really is good; I heard him sing last Midwinter, and it made goose bumps all over my arms. He’s almost the best singer in Thendara except for Ellynyn Ardais—and Ellynyn is comyn and an emmasca, so of course he has a wonderful voice.”

  Margaret considered these words. They had not been on the tape of Trade Language of Thendara City, but she was fairly certain she knew what emmasca meant. She had heard the famous castrati of the pleasure world of Vainwal, and could almost wish they were legal on other worlds. They had the reputation of being the finest voices in the Empire. Were they legal on Darkover? Or were they, whatever they were, born that way? The other term remained a mystery, because while she knew it, something seemed to be blocking her ability to understand its meaning.

  Then she realized that Ivor was no longer beside her. She looked around, and found the professor standing underneath one of the street signs, studying the oddly-shaped violin on it. Margaret shook her head, retreated to him, and herded him gently down the narrow street. He was muttering happily to himself, asking himself questions and answering them almost immediately.

  When they caught up with the boys, who were waiting very patiently, she asked, “The job of craft master is generally handed down from father to son, then?” Her brain might be tired, but it seemed her tongue ran on automatic and continued to ask questions.

  The boys looked at each other and shrugged. It was Ethan who answered. “Sometimes. It depends on the son’s skill or lack of it. The MacArdis, and the MacArans, have been craft masters in the Music Guild for a long time now. Just as the MacEwans and the MacCalls are master tailors, and the MacDoevids are the best weavers in Thendara. Erald MacArdis will not care, for what he likes best is to wander about and gather songs. My sister Becca is married now to Rodrigo’s brother, so I hear a lot of music gossip when she comes home. Is that something like you do, domna?”

  “That is exactly what I do. But, if you’ll forgive me for asking—I don’t know what’s rude here—didn’t your family want Becca to marry in the cloth guild? Why did she marry an outsider?”

  “Why? Because she sings like a bird, is why. And the mess she makes with a loom! Why, I can weave better than she can—and I could when I was ten years old.” I wish I couldn’t, so I could do what I want—but like Mama says, we don’t always get what we want! “But to hear her sing—that really is a treat.”

  “I hope to hear her, then,” Margaret said and the boy grinned up at her in the flickering light. He was really quite nice-looking when he smiled. And the emotion behind his thoughts was very strong—even though she was probably imagining the whole thing.

  “Da let her marry outside the guild when she threatened to run off and join the Renunciates if he didn’t.” Margaret wondered what kind of a threat that was, what the Renunciates were, and what they renounced. She let the question that rose to her mouth go unasked. Ivor was drooping again, and beginning to shiver, his previous interest in the strange instrument gone.

  “Does Master Everard live hereabout?”

  “Right there,” said Geremy and led the way to a house halfway down the narrow street. It was a little larger than the rest, but gave no other indication to her eye of being different. The door had a painting of a stylized harp sort of instrument, and another of a bagpipe. Geremy put the bags down and bounced up the three steps. He gave a sharp rap on the door.

  After a brief wait, a thickly-padded woman in her fifties opened the door and peered out nearsightedly. “Yes? Oh, it’s you, young man. What d’you want now?”

  “I have brought your guests from the spaceport. They are important people from beyond the stars,” he announced, puffing up his narrow chest with pride. “Where is Master Everard, Anya?”

  “What? Now? Are you certain?” She looked at Margaret in the flickering light from the doorway and shook her head. “That old fellow will forget his own name next! Come, come in! What a muddle! I wasn’t expecting you for yet another tenday, but I’ll manage, I suppose.” Anya seemed rather doubtful for a moment, then remembered her manners. “Do come in out of the cold, mestra and . . . surely you are not Master Doevidson?” She gave the name the local pronunciation rather than the Terran one.

  “No, I am his assistant.” Margaret looked around and found that Ivor was still standing across the street, looking at the instrument painted on the closed shutters of a shop. His breathing seemed rather noisy, and she hoped he was not coming down with a cold or something worse. He looked so small and old in the flickering light of the torches that her heart ached.

  “She is Margaret Alton, Anya,” Geremy said, evidently feeling that he must make the introductions. She heard the words as she started guiding Ivor across the street gently, and when she glanced up, she could see that Anya was surprised at her name. And very curious—the way the boys had been when she said it a few minutes before. She hadn’t really noticed, but now, remembering their reaction, she wondered what it meant, if anything. A good old name, Ethan had said. Probably it was a common patronymic, and there were Altons all over the place.

  She could wonder about such things later. She guided Ivor up the stairs, toward the light and warmth of the house. He leaned heavily on her arm. “Come along now. It’s too cold to be standing out and looking at street signs.”

  “Yes, yes, my dear. I am sure you are right—but are those paintings an accurate rendering, or are they merely stylized? You remember, on Delphin, we saw the pictures of the sacred horns, but the real things looked quite different. I just cannot believe those eff-holes.”

  “Not tonight.” She led him inside. “The eff-holes will keep until tomorrow.”

  Like an overweary child, Ivor broke from her grasp and turned around on the steps, starting back down them. “But I’ve never seen anything like it; what kind of tone do they get with star-shaped eff-holes? And what sort of wood . . . ?”

  She was ready to scream with weariness and impatience, and she nearly took a nasty spill as she grabbed the edge of his cloak and virtually hauled him back. “Not tonight! Ivor, do come in. I’m cold. You are cold. You are going to make yourself sick, and then you won’t be able to do anything!”

  “Moira! Raimon!” Anya shouted cheerfully. “Come out here and get these bags. We have guests!” She made it sound as if the absence of those she called was somehow their fault. Margaret would have laughed if she had not been quite so tired.

  The stoop was a little crowded, between Geremy and Ethan and the baggage, but it sorted itself out in a few moments. The lads handed the bags to the man who appeared—he must be Raimon—and Ethan carefully placed Ivor’s precious guitar inside the door, out of the way of feet.

  Margaret opened her belt pouch and fumbled in it for money. She drew out two silvery coins and handed one to each boy. They stared, and Geremy finally said, “Domna, this is too much.”

  She was too tired to haggle. “Nonsense. You are going to come back tomorrow and take me to see your uncle the master tailor. I may want you to take me other places as well. May I expect you after the noon meal?”

  “Yes, we will both be here.” He shook his head in wonder. “Whatever you need, we will help you find. Ethan’s brother works for the finest bootmaker in all Thendara and . . . well, it will keep, won’t it?” Then he shoved the coin into his pocket, and bounded to the foot of the stairs, where the other boy was waiting. “See? I told you she was comynara . . .” she heard as they raced down the uneven cobbles of the street.

  That word again! She went into the house and closed the door, leaning back wearily against the heavy wood. Margaret pulled her hood down, an
d her red hair came tumbling out with the tug of the sleek fabric, damp and curling slightly. It clung to her neck and cheeks, and she felt like something the cat would not bother to drag in. Her skull pounded with a wretched headache, and the wonderful smell of cooking was enough to drive her wild with hunger. At the same time, she did not think she had ever felt so tired in her life.

  Anya, plump as a pigeon, and the other servants were clustered in the doorway, staring at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. Briskly, she made herself smile anyway, and prepared to deal with the business of getting herself and Ivor some food and a place to sleep just as quickly as possible.

  Margaret lay in a bed large enough to sleep three or four comfortably and reveled in the utter luxury of it.

  After several days on the narrow couches of the ship, or in the cubicles provided at stopovers, it felt wonderful. And it was much larger than the bed she usually slept in in her quarters on University. The Terrans might regard Darkover as backward, but in the matter of decent beds, they were clearly very civilized. She looked toward the small window that pierced the wall. The first red glimmer of sunrise had awakened her, brushing her eyelids like a soft caress. One of the few things her father had ever said about Darkover, she decided, was accurate. She had never really believed it, but it was true; the great red sun of Darkover really was the color of blood. “The bloody sun” was descriptive, not poetic hyperbole.

  Now she tried to recall the events of the previous evening. There had been a warm, meaty stew, something that tasted like venison, but not quite, served with crusty bread, obviously home-baked. Margaret had eaten without tasting much, because in between bites she had to act as translator for Ivor and Master Everard MacArdis. The professor had clearly memorized all the musical terms that were on his disk, but his accent was dreadful, and she had a hard time figuring out his meaning sometimes. He did not have the natural musical line of Darkovan speech yet—he would in a few weeks—and his Terran Standard pronunciation was distressing.