The Shadow Matrix (45 page)

though why anyone worries about things which have already happened has always

been something of a mystery to me. Why bother thinking that you might have frozen to

death in the storm, when the storm is passed, and you are not dead?"

"You are wise beyond your years, Rafaella. But—what bandits?"

"When we were on the way to Neskaya, our camp was attacked in the night by some

scum that ought to have known better. They did manage to surprise us, and for a short

time had the upper hand. But Marguerida . . . oh, blast! I have to catch up with my

merchants. Besides, it is her tale, and I should not tell it without her leave. I will be in

Thendara for a day or two before I leave again—you know where to find me." She put

her heels into the horse's flanks and trotted away.

They picked their way through the traffic in silence, for the racket of voices, carts, and

horses made conversation difficult. At last they left the noise behind, and the road,

snow-packed down to a hard, flat surface from all the feet and hooves that had trod it,

lay empty before them.

"You seem to have some odd friends, Mik. First a crow, and now an Amazon! I was

very embarrassed when you called out to her—what will people think?"

"I imagine they will think that I know her. It is nothing for you to be embarrassed

about. You are becoming conventional, Giz. Rather like my mother," he added

unkindly.

"I take it that she meant- Marguerida Alton," Gisela

began, ignoring his comments, her sensuous voice deep and a little dangerous. "Is it

true about her, what I heard?"

"I cannot imagine, since I do not know what that might be." His voice was cold and

formal, in unconscious imitation of Danilo Syrtis-Ardais who, when he chose, could

cut one to the quick with only a few words.

"That she is deformed!"

Mikhail turned and looked at his companion with shock. "Deformed. Certainly not!"

He knew the horror with which most Darkovans regarded any physical infirmity, but

he expected better of Gisela.

"Then why does she conceal her hands, if she is not hiding some ugly malformation?"

"You have been listening to servants, Giz, and you know how they always get things

wrong or exaggerate them." He was not about to talk about Marguerida's shadow

matrix in the middle of the road, least of all with Gisela Aldaran.

"What is she hiding?"

Mikhail pursed his lips. "That is not a matter I feel free to discuss," he answered,

drawing his horse's head apart from hers a little, trying to put some distance between

them.

Gisela was having none of that. She reined her horse closer to him and demanded, "Do

you care for her?"

"Again, that is not a topic for conversation."

"Then you do! I had heard some gossip, but I did not believe it. And, it is a pity that

you will never be able to . . ."

"Gisela, stop, before you say something regrettable! This is no business of yours!"

"Oh, but it is, and you are a fool if you cannot realize it. Surely you cannot think you

can marry her! She is the Alton heiress, and must marry lower than herself." There was

a bitterness in her voice that stung him. "I understand these things, you see, for I have

spent my whole life thinking about them."

"I said I did not want to talk about it, Giz!"

"No, Mikhail! There are breaches to be healed, and the best way to accomplish that is

between you and me. Besides, I have already made up my mind to have you, and I

always get my way. Always!"

"If you actually believe that, then you are a greater fool

than I ever—" He stopped speaking before he said something irrevocable.
She sounds

very much like Gabe,
he thought, finding a sudden glint of humor in the whole

unpleasant situation. "Now stop behaving like a spoiled child and ruining a very nice

ride."

Gisela turned her horse's head around abruptly, coming so close to Mikhail's horse that

the crow flared its wings with alarm. She glared at him as she announced, "I have

dreamed of having you since we first met, and I will have my way! More, I have the

Aldaran Gift, and I have seen that I will marry a Hastur!" Despite the passion in her

voice, Mikhail sensed an undertone of doubt.

Gisela gave her horse a brisk blow with her quirt, and the little mare started, then

began to trot back toward the city gates. He was stunned at first, then very annoyed at

not having gotten the last word. He felt chilled under his warm cloak.

Mikhail sat on his horse, knowing he should turn and follow her. But he was too angry.

He reflected that she reminded him very much of Javanne when she was in a

determined mood, and realized that he had not noticed that quality in her before.

Marry a Hastur? Not this Hastur, if he could help it! Besides, the Comyn Council

would never agree. The future was not set in stone, but was something more fluid than

he had ever imagined. He could have died at Halyn House, or broken his neck on the

road, which would have put an end to all his futures. He spent a pleasant moment

deciding which of his brothers might make the supreme sacrifice of taking Gisela to

wife, and the start of a smile appeared on the corners of his mouth.

Calmer now, satisfied that he had handled Gisela as well as he could, Mikhail put his

knees into Charger, and started up the North Road, toward the ruins of Hali, and

beyond it, to Neskaya, where Marguerida was. If he followed his heart, he could be

with her in five or six days of hard riding. But duty called, and after an hour, he reined

in the big bay, and turned back toward Thendara.

18

Margaret Alton and Rafaella n'ha Liriel in the company of two Guardsmen entered

Thendara just ahead of a small storm front. It had been at their backs for two days,

threatening, but never actually reaching them. She was grateful for that, to all the many

gods whose names she knew, even if she did not believe in every one of them. The

Guardsmen said it was the mildest early winter they could recall, but as far as Margaret

was concerned, it was sheer hell. Her fingers felt like icicles, and she was quite sure

her feet would never be warm again.

The sight of the walls of Thendara heartened her. The trip had been mercifully

uneventful—no bandits, no banshees, and only occasional blowing snow—but she was

tired. Her bottom had, she was certain, developed calluses from hard riding, and her

spine ached from tailbone to skull. But soon she would be at Comyn Castle, and if she

had not gotten her days completely mixed, Ida Davidson would be arriving from

University tomorrow or the day after. Fear that she might be delayed, that her dear

friend might arrive and find no welcome, had troubled her chilly sleep since they left

Neskaya.

The city was transformed to her eyes. The roofs were concealed with snow, and icicles

hung along the edges of the houses. The streets were open, though great mounds of

frozen snow sat at corners, impeding the few carts that tried to move through them. But

there was something else, she decided, looking around alertly despite her weariness.

What was it?

Then Margaret realized that there were long swags of greenery, swathed in lengths of

gold cloth, hung across the stone facades of the houses and businesses, giving the city

a celebratory air it lacked in summer. Then, too, it seemed

that the inhabitants of the city were wearing clothing of brighter color than she

remembered, as if they were trying to counterbalance the gray and white of winter with

boisterous hues.

They passed a market square, and she saw gaudily painted wagons, five or six of them.

They were unlike anything she had seen before on Darkover. She could see that the

sides of the wagons could be lowered to become small stages, for one of them was

being used for a small performance. Her respect for Darkovans went up a notch at the

sight of a dozen people, enduring the chill of the day, watching the little show with

both interest, and clear familiarity. From time to time, one of the audience shouted at

the players, and was answered.

"Rafaella, what are these people doing?"

"What? Oh, you mean the Travelers? They are only allowed in Thendara at

Midsummer or Midwinter—the rest of the time they keep to the countryside or the

smaller cities. You missed them at Midsummer because you were already at Arilinn.

The Guilds don't like them, so they keep them away."

"I don't understand. Why do the Guilds object—I assume you mean the musicians and

the actors—is there an Actors Guild? I never thought about it before."

"Oh, certainly. There is a Puppet Guild, one for dancers, and even one for the costume

makers." The Renunciate made a face, as if trying to find a way to say something

difficult.

Remy, one of the two Guardsmen that Regis had insisted accompany them, answered.

"The musicians don't want the competition, because some of the singers in the

Travelers are just as good or better than those in the Guild. But the real reason is that

they are a bunch of ruffians, and they sing what they like, or do plays that are . . ." he

made a face, "a bit ripe. They have a bit of fun at the expense of all and sundry.

Everyone likes to laugh at other folk. So they do plays about fat merchants who cheat,

or wives who beat their husbands, and everyone laughs except the merchants or the

husbands. Or they sing songs that would make a
comynara
blush, begging your

pardon, and everyone has a chuckle." . "But I never heard of them before."

"There were always wandering entertainers, Marguerida, but it wasn't until about

fifteen or twenty years ago that there were very many of them. I heard that Master

Everard's son Erald spends some time with them, and that is the real reason he won't

become Guildmaster when Everard dies. They say he writes songs that mock the

Comyn."

"I knew from Master Everard that he had written something that was banned, but not

the reason." She looked at the wagons again, her scholarly curiosity aroused, and

regretted that she would never again have the liberty to pursue her interests.

The other Guardsman, Helgar, a dour man of few words, added, "These players have

no respect for anyone—they make fun of one and all. Even-handed of them, to be

sure."

Remy grinned at his companions. "And one of their favorite targets is the Renunciates,

which is why
Mestra
Rafaella does not really want to talk about them."

"Do they ever cause trouble—get people angry or anything?" Margaret had read about

riots on a few planets which had been provoked by things as seemingly harmless as a

song.

Rafaella shook her head, puzzled. "No. But their songs and japes do make the

marketplaces buzz a bit."

As they rode down a narrow street. Margaret could see the roof of the castle rising

above the rest of the city, and her heart felt lighter. Soon she would see her father and

Mikhail, and she would be glad of that. And Ida Davidson, too. What would Ida make

of Darkover?

When they entered the stableyard half an hour later, they found a large carriage

blocking the way. It had six horses pulling it, and was heaped with boxes and cases on

the top, so that it looked very unbalanced. Swarms of grooms and servants surrounded

the carriage, shouting and getting in each other's way. It was organized chaos, but no

one appeared to mind. In fact, Margaret decided, they seemed to be actively enjoying

it.

Margaret was too happy to be within reach of her goal to be annoyed by this delay. She

leaned back in her saddle, stretched her spine against it, and lifted her arms above her

head. She felt the bones shift and move back into place all along her spine, with a few

satisfying little pops.

As she lowered her arms, something struck her on the

shoulder, nearly unseating her. As she regained her balance, Margaret was aware of

something clutching her left shoulder, and she turned abruptly.

Red eyes and a fearsome beak confronted her, so close she could see the fine black

feathers that began at the bill and ascended along a handsome head. It cawed softly, as

if trying to tell her not to be afraid, while Dorilys snorted and stamped.

Margaret drew a sharp breath in the chilly air, and smelled an oily, fishy scent which

brought a flood of images, of warm seas on Thetis, and a wind that was never cold.

"Good day, my pretty," she said quietly. She had seen such birds on Thetis, and she

found she was not afraid, just cautious.

So this was Mik's crow. Handsome fellow. It shifted from claw to claw, fluttering a

little. At last she extended her left arm, and it scooted down until it perched on her

wrist.

For a moment it did not move, and then it began to touch the glove, along the back of

her hand with its beak. It did not peck, but instead moved the bill in graceful lines,

tracing the shadow matrix hidden beneath leather and silk. Margaret held her breath,

stunned, as her companions watched with great curiosity. Apparently satisfied, the