Traitor's Sun (49 page)

Domenic hesitated then, conscious of an inner conflict. Hermes Aldaran was the son of Damon Aldaran, the head of that Domain. True, Herm had assured him earlier that he was loyal, but all the old stories about Aldaran betrayal rose in his mind. Regis had managed to force the Council to allow
Dom
Damon and Robert Aldaran seats on it, but there was still a great deal of bad feeling about the entire family. He liked and trusted Hermes, and he thought well of Robert, didn’t he? It was old
Dom
Damon he did not like. But where would Herm’s real loyalties lie if it came to serious conflict?

Domenic struggled briefly with the problem. Then he made his choice, deciding he did not have time to consult with Lew or his father. The Terran stranger had kept looking to the north, and this band of Travelers had come from Aldaran territory in the spring—there might be no connection, but he could not assume that.
The girl says that when they came down from the mountains this spring, there was a change. I think that someone in the Hellers is up to mischief.

Domenic was rather pleased at the diplomatic way he phrased this, but he had not anticipated the quickness of his uncle’s mind.
If you mean my father, I would not put anything past him. He has always resented the Hasturs, and thought that the Aldaran could do a better job of running Darkover. But, truthfully, this mess is not his style, Nico. My father is not a very subtle man, and spreading sedition would, I believe, never occur to him.

I have to agree, from the little I know about
Dom
Damon. But maybe he is backing them somehow.

It was getting colder now, especially without his cloak, and Nico shivered, as much from the chill as from the words he had just heard. The distrust of the Aldaran went back for generations, and it had been very important to Regis Hastur to overcome it. If it were discovered that they were involved in planning the overthrow of the Hasturs, all that effort would have been for nothing. And using the Travelers to spread discontent was very clever. They went everywhere, and spread gossip as they did.

But Herm was right about one thing—it was not the sort of behavior that
Dom
Damon had shown in the past. He tended to bluster and bully his way around. Domenic felt very young and a little helpless for a moment, as if too much had been put on his shoulders. And, as if he sensed this, Herm put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get in out of the cold, shall we?”
And let Lew know about the latest developments.

D
omenic looked at Herm for a moment, in the flickering light from the courtyard. Then he said, “We should make sure everything is under control first.” His words surprised him, and the firm voice that came from his throat seemed to be that of another—some older, stronger person than himself.

“Yes, I suppose another few minutes will not matter,” Herm agreed. “Rafaella, take Illona with you, please. She needs a hot bath—look how she is shivering.”

“I don’t want to go with her,” Illona wailed, sounding suddenly very young and afraid. “I want my aunt!”

“I know you do,” Rafaella began gently. “But you will have to make do with me. It is going to start raining soon, and if you stay out here, you will get an inflammation of the lung and have to drink all manner of nasty-tasting things to heal you.”

“I wish I was dead, too,” the girl moaned.

“No, you don’t!” Herm was stern. “And Loret would not want you dead either—she wanted you to be safe, child.”

“I . . . can’t believe she is dead. Now I am all alone . . . what is going to happen to me?”

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Illona,” Rafi told the girl almost tenderly. “Now come along.” The girl hesitated, then finally allowed the older woman to draw her away.

It was growing colder, and Nico was sorry he no longer had his cloak. He wanted to follow the girl and the Renunciate into the warmth of the inn. Instead, his sense of duty gripped him—the very thing he had run away to avoid—and he marched back into the courtyard purposefully. There was a great deal of heat from the fire, and the yard was unnaturally warm. Destruction was everywhere. He needed to introduce Herm to the old Guardsmen who were helping put out the fires and carry the dead and wounded away.

Yet, the scene within the yard was less chaotic than he might have imagined. Most of the fires were beginning to gutter out from lack of fuel. There was a terrible smell, of burned wood, paint, and probably flesh as well. There had been people in the wagons when they went up, and not all of them had escaped. His stomach gave a slight lurch.

Domenic spotted Duncan Lindir first and went over to him. The man was very pale in the light that remained. “How many dead have you found?”

“Six Travelers,
vai dom,
and one man from the village. There may be more in the rubble—it is still too hot to handle—but I hope not. Then there are the injured—quite a lot, but I am not sure of the number yet. Mostly broken arms and knocked heads. The Renunciate healer is seeing to them with the help of the village healer.”

“Very good, Duncan. This is Hermes Aldaran.” Duncan sketched a brief bow, as if reluctant to show respect to an Aldaran. “I was told to ask you for orders, but I did not have the chance earlier,
dom.
” His tone was barely civil, as if he was forcing himself to say the words without meaning them.

“Just as well, since I had none to give you,” Herm answered, pretending he had not noticed the man’s mild rudeness. “I would like to know the rest of your company.”

“Well, they are rather . . .”

“I did not mean this instant, man! I can see they are very busy. Just point them out and tell me their names . . . if you would be so kind.”

The irony of his answer was not lost on Lindir, and Duncan’s mouth twisted in something approaching a smile. He nodded then, and Domenic could sense the old Guardsman’s barely supressed hostility toward Herm begin to diminish. He watched the two men, speaking in quieter voices now, and wondered how his uncle did it. It was the same thing as had happened with Loret that afternoon. But Herm did not seem to be trying to be charming now, just businesslike and impersonal. If there was a
laran
for persuasion, then Herm had it, he decided. Nico moved away, restless and uneasy. Where had Vancof and the other man gotten to? Had they been hurt or perhaps killed in the riot?

He walked toward the corner where he had last seen the Terran man standing, an inky cluster of shadows where the stables met the wall of the inn. There was a low bench there, where the grooms and stable lads waited for wayfarers or rested from their duties, almost invisible except as a deeper shadow against the wall of the inn. He stood there for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the near darkness, and then he saw a boot.

Nico squatted down and peered beneath the bench. The boot had once been shining leather, but now was scuffed and a little muddy. It led to a leg, and as his eyes were able to see more, he realized he was looking at the body of the nameless man. There was no movement, no rise and fall in the chest. He swallowed very hard several times, then reached out and put his hands around the boot.

He stood up and used his weight to try to pull the body out from beneath the bench. The man was heavy, but at last the corpse slithered out across the uneven stones of the courtyard. There was the sound of footfalls behind Domenic, and a moment later Abel MacEwan was beside him, shouldering him firmly out of the way and taking the burden of dead flesh into his larger and more capable hands.

The torso of the dead man was slumped forward, but now it fell back, and Domenic could see the hilt of a knife thrust into the chest. A stain spread around the wound, dark against the brown cloth of the tunic. Someone brought a torch, and he looked down into the face of the stranger.

The eyes were still open, and the mouth gaped a little. He seemed, in death, to be surprised. Nico could not drag his eyes away from the sight, until someone finally took the shoulders of the corpse and Abel the feet and, between them, began to carry it away.

No, not surprised—betrayed. Swaying a little from the shock of it, Domenic knew that no one from the village had killed the man. It must have been Vancof—though why was a mystery. Then he remembered that morning, seeing the dead man give the driver something. He closed his eyes, trying to recall every detail. There had been something folded, a paper, and another object, something square.

As the fires went out, the chill of the evening began to make Domenic shiver. Despite his discomfort, he did not move, frozen in place with sorrow and horror. Instead, he forced himself to try to remember anything he had overheard from Vancof. Most of it was a useless muddle, but a few phrases seemed to be important. The word “orders” kept cropping up, something the driver did not like, which made him afraid. What had he been ordered to do—kill his ally? That was insane! Still, there seemed no other explanation, and he forced his mind to accept it.

Almost shaking with chill and emotion now, Domenic trudged into the inn. The warmth of the entrance seemed almost feverish for a few steps. He brushed his sleeve across his face roughly. Then, too weary to continue, he sank onto a bench near the door.

Nico felt his control slip away in a flood of unfamiliar emotions. He wanted to weep, but no tears came. He felt as if he had turned to stone, and he ached for release. People were dead, innocent folk like Illona’s Aunt Loret, whom he had known only for a few minutes. The Terran man, whose name he had never discovered, was dead also. He had not seen the others, but he had seen the unknown Terran, and knew, deep down, that he had not deserved to perish.

The deep grief for the death of Regis Hastur, which he had held at bay for days, rose in his throat at last. He remembered incidents, pleasant moments when his great-uncle was at ease, telling tales of the Sharra Rebellion, to Grandfather Lew’s obvious discomfort, but somehow making them seem less painful than they must have been. Nico recalled Regis’ charm and swift wit, the way he ate his meals, and many other small things. It did not seem enough, somehow, for such a great man.

His chest ached, and there was a pounding pulse in his forehead. A tear rolled down his cheek and he swept it away with a trembling finger. All he had done was run away for a bit of fun, and now there were dead people and injured folk, and too much pain to endure. This was not an adventure—it was a nightmare from which he could not escape!

If only Lew or his mother could be with him, to tell him how to feel, to help him. Logically, Domenic knew that the riot would have happened whether he had been present or not, but he still felt responsible. After dwelling on this unsettling event and feeling worse by the moment his good sense tried to assert itself, and succeeded a little. He was being morbid over things he could not control! He had to get a grip on himself and inform his grandfather of the events in Carcosa. Now, if only his cold and tired body would cooperate!

Domenic forced himself to stand and half stumbled up the stairs to his room. Once there, he slammed the door shut and sank down on the edge of the bed. His breathing was ragged and he tried to control it. At last the rapid beating of his heart started to slow, and the dreadful thoughts that were racing through his mind began to subside. He closed his eyes hard, pinching the lids down almost angrily, trying in vain to squeeze the images of destruction out of his mind’s eye.

From below, he could hear voices, townspeople and Guardsmen both. The sickening smell of the burned wood and flesh lingered in the air. Then he realized that the stench was in his clothes, his hair, his skin, and he almost vomited. He pulled his tunic over his head and threw it across the room into the far corner. The movement energized him enough to shed all his garments, and to pour cold water from the ewer into the basin and wash himself. Then he put on a clean shirt from their purchases in the town market, and the trousers he had worn the previous day. The comforting smell of horse from the garment seemed to dispell the miasma of death in his discarded clothing as well as the scents that wafted through the window.