Even though it was obvious now, Margaret had never thought of the Senator as a servant of the planet he represented. She felt not only ignorant, but stupid because she had paid so little attention to his work. She knew it was not entirely her own fault, that she had been rebuffed in her own attempts to make contact with her father. The dream came back, and she felt a cold hand clamp her heart. What if he were dead?
She shook her head to clear it, and her hair began to uncoil against her neck. Damn silky stuff. It was only a dream! Ivor’s death had disturbed her; he had been like a father to her, and it was not really surprising that his passing had brought up her fears of loss and abandonment. Besides, Margaret and the Senator had abandoned one another years before. Hadn’t they?
Room 411 was unlike the narrow offices she had spent the morning sitting in. It was furnished with comfortable couches, draped in native textiles, and it smelled of Darkover. There were some fine masks hung against the walls, and she frowned at them. One in particular disturbed her—a woman’s face with flames rising from the scalp in place of hair. She felt herself tremble and forced herself to look away. Margaret frowned at her reaction. She had seen masks before, and they had never given her gooseflesh.
A man rose from behind a carved table. He blinked, his eyes hidden by a pair of spectacles that belonged in a museum. His hair was grizzled, and he sported a patchy beard that looked as if it grew at random along his sunken cheeks. But he smiled, and that gave his ancient features an animation and a friendliness which took away the nasty taste of Major Wintergreen, which she had not known contaminated her mood until it was gone.
“So, you are Margaret Alton! How delightful to meet you! I am Brigham Conover, Head of Ethnology here.”
“Professor Conover.” Margaret extended her hand in a friendly fashion. “I read your paper on the Dry Towns wedding customs. It was one of the few things in the archives about Darkover that wasn’t restricted.” They shook hands and grinned at each other like naughty children looking for mischief. Conover reminded her of Ivor, in his younger and stronger years. Now she was close enough to him, she could see his blue eyes had a lively twinkle and there were deep laugh lines around them.
Rafe cleared his throat. “I’ll be off now, Marguerida. I’ll come back in about an hour, if that’s all right, and get you some lunch.”
“Thank you, Rafe. You’ve been wonderful.”
“Sit down, sit down.” Conover gestured toward one of the couches. “Would you like some tea?”
“I would. My throat feels like ten miles of bad road. The air is so dry in here.” She watched him bustle about, and felt the tension in her body begin to dissipate. Maybe now she could get some straight answers. He brought two steaming mugs and gave her one.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“I intend to complete the work that Professor Davidson and I came to Darkover to do, and every time I turn around, I run into stone walls. At least, that is what it feels like. When we got posted here, I couldn’t get data from the central files, which was very odd. Why is that?”
“You want a simple answer to a complex question. I will do my best.” Conover paused and stared into the vapor rising from his mug. “You know that Darkover is a protected planet, neither a full member of the Federation nor entirely apart. The history behind that is before my time, but I know a few of the facts. Twenty years or so ago there was a rebellion here, in which a number of people died, important people. Your father was part of it. He went away to become the voice of the planet to the Federation, and Regis Hastur started to try to bring Darkover into some sort of agreement with the Federation. That has not been easy—Darkovan culture resists any kind of change. And one of the things that occurred was that a great deal of information about the planet that would ordinarily have been accessible became restricted.”
“Why? Surely Darkover presents no threat to the Federation.”
“There is no way to predict what is perceived as a threat, Miss Alton.”
“Oh. Won’t you call me Margaret, please.”
“Certainly—if you will call me Brigham. I can see by your expression that you are not satisfied. The problem is that there is a great deal about Darkover which remains a mystery to us here at HQ, and mysteries and secrets always create distrust between nations. So, the Federation classified much of what was known about Darkover and chose a waiting game. Those who make such decisions—and let me assure you, most of them have never even been here—believe that eventually Darkover will capitulate, open its doors, reveal its secrets, and become just another Federation member. At the same time, the Darkovans remain obstinate. They don’t want to accept everything Terran and give up the way they have lived for thousands of years. I am in the middle. My job is to be an ethnologist and gather data for use by the Terran Federation.”
“What kind of ‘use’?” She sipped her tea and tasted the honey in it. Margaret was not sure she liked the sound of any of this. With a small start she realized that her father had probably held the Federation at bay all those years, and now that he had resigned, she worried about what might happen. What an idiot she was, not to have paid better attention, to have appreciated that her father might have been doing something worthwhile!
Conover paused a moment before answering. “What they really want is to discover what weaknesses exist in the Darkovan culture which can be manipulated to the advantage of the Federation. I confess I have enormous reservations about wholesale interference with any local culture. I’ve seen the results too often. The history of Terra is a history of cultures destroyed by progress and arrogance.
“So, what do you do? Surely you don’t suppress data?” The very idea scandalized the scholar in her.
“That is one sin I have so far avoided, Margaret.” He gave a sharp bark of mirthless laughter. “No, I don’t hide data—I am just very careful what subjects are studied. You see, I am in charge of giving the grants which allow research. So, we learn about Darkovan music and marital customs and other fairly harmless matters, but we do not delve too deeply into the essential Darkovan mysteries.”
“Such as?”
Conover reflected for a moment. “There are no learned treatises on the Alton Gift or the other peculiar talents which have been observed, Margaret.”
“I still don’t understand why.” She was startled. He knew about the Gifts. It seemed as if everywhere she turned, people knew things she didn’t. Well, it didn’t matter. Margaret was not going to get involved in local matters, and as for her supposed Gift—to hell with it. If she had the occasional bit of telepathic interchange, as she had with Rafe earlier, it wasn’t going to bother her. She would keep herself apart, as she always had. She ignored the cold, sad feeling that rose in her chest at that thought.
“There are people within the Federation who would exploit those talents, and I do not believe that that would be in the best interest of Darkover. It is a difficult path to tread.” He gave a little sigh.
“But if it’s such a big secret, how do you know about the Alton Gift. I never even heard of it myself, until yesterday.”
“Your father was kind enough to grant me several interviews before I came here, and he was not reticent, once he had taken my measure. That is how I recognized you when you came in—he has a portrait of you in his office.”
“He does?” Her head was beginning to ache again.
“Yes, and he is very proud of you.”
She made a face. “It’s a pity he never mentioned that to me.” She hid her fury as well as she could. Lew was confiding in Conover when he hadn’t had the consideration to tell her things she needed to know about her own heritage. Didn’t he trust her? How could he—they barely knew each other.
Margaret took a long, slow breath and tried to calm herself. She shifted her body on the couch into a more easy position and forced herself to let go of her rage. It was a struggle, and her anger almost won out. She found her eyes were moist with unshed tears, and she blinked them away.
; “So, tell me, Brigham, what is the best way for me to go about finishing the work I came here to do?”
“You will need a guide, since you will be going into the Kilghard Hills. It is rough country, and the people are not entirely friendly. You have the advantage that one look at you will convince them you are a native of Darkover. But you will need more than that, I think.”
Margaret laughed. “I have already encountered that—when I went to the clothiers, they acted as if I were royalty. I nearly went nuts. They kept insisting I needed a ball gown for when I went to the Castle, not working clothes. I haven’t owned a ball gown since I got my degree at the University, and I couldn’t understand it, nor why they kept calling me domna instead of mestra. Then Ivor died, and I was too busy trying to arrange burial to think about it. You can imagine my surprise when I bumped into Rafe Scott yesterday and found out I was some sort of heiress and that I had relatives all over the place. He took me up to Comyn Castle, and I met Lord and Lady Hastur—who both turn out to be some kind of cousins of mine. And then they expected me to stay there, and they were rather hurt when I insisted I was going to finish Ivor’s work. They were very courteous, but I felt as if I were smothering.”
“You are used to the relative freedom women enjoy in the Federation, Margaret. Darkovan women are more confined, and except for the Renunciates, rarely travel.”
“Renunciates? What are those—nuns?”
Conover grinned, and his eyes lit up. “No, not nuns, at least not in the sense that you know that word. The Renunciates Guild, or Free Amazons, are a group of women who have chosen to remove themselves from the restrictions of Darkovan culture. They do not marry, which is almost unthinkable here, and if they bear a child, they do so without giving the child his father’s name. They began by functioning as guides and escorts, and then expanded their role to include educators and midwives. They have become the principal agency of spreading Terran knowledge on Darkover during the past twenty-five years. Remarkable women.”
“Free Amazons? Do they call themselves that?”
“Very astute of you. No, that is a name that has become attached to them—most women on Darkover wouldn’t know an Amazon from a rabbit-horn. The Renunciates are something of a cultural anomaly, independent females in a very patriarchal society. They learn to read and write, which is still unusual on Darkover, and they bow to no man in any matter. Thus the nickname Amazons. They study everything from martial arts to medicine. Several Terrans have even become Renunciates—much to the displeasure of people like Major Wintergreen.”
“You mean they’ve gone native?”
“Essentially. There is something about Darkover that speaks to some of us—I can’t explain it, but it happens. Genetically, Darkovans are human, but they are more than that. They have something extra, and that either attracts you or repels you. If you feel at home on Darkover, there is a good chance you will want to remain here, and that makes people like Thelma very uncomfortable.”
“What about you, Brigham?”
“I have a Darkovan wife and two children. If I were a little younger, I would have gone over the wall. Instead I have chosen to follow the example of Magda Lorne and some others, like Captain Scott, and tried to become a bridge between our worlds. It isn’t easy, but it is, in some ways, the most satisfying thing I have ever done. Now, let’s get down to the business at hand!”
By the time Rafe returned, Margaret was ravenous enough to eat the tasteless food in the HQ cafeteria without a fuss. She had learned a great deal from Conover—important things about the danger of forest fires in the Kilghard Hills and the continuing problem of brigands. He had given her copies of maps, and answered most of her immediate questions. It wasn’t until she sat down at the table in the cafeteria that she realized she had not asked him about the Telepathic Council or any details about the mysterious Alton Gift. It was as if she had already entered into the conspiracy of silence that surrounded so many things Darkovan.
“I’ll show you the way to Thendara House,” Rafe announced when she had finished eating. “They will supply you with a guide, and help you get the supplies you will need. By the way, can you ride a horse?”
“As a matter of fact, I can. I had a horse when I was growing up on Thetis, and the only sport I pursued at University was riding. It has been a long time, of course, but I think I can manage.” The mention of horses brought back the memory of riding along the surf, the wind against her face and the smell of salt rising in her breath. “The horses they had at University were pretty tame, and I couldn’t afford to get a better mount.”
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.”