Traitor's Sun (51 page)

There were several small rooms along the corridor, and they went to one at the end of it, a tiny chamber that was occupied by three Guardsmen, as well as a man he had never seen before. The stranger, who must be Mathias, had pale hair and the look of the Dry Towns about him. His light blue eyes were constricted almost to pinpoints, and he looked frightened out of his wits. Six people in the small room was too many, and the heat of their bodies was almost overwhelming. It was like stepping into an oven, but instead of the nice smell of bread, there was only the stench of fear and anger.

With no spoken word of command, two of the men stepped out into the hall, leaving Duncan, Herm, and Domenic alone with the hapless man. They were standing, and he was seated on a rush chair, his hands bound with a rope. The atmosphere in the room seemed a little less stifling now, and Mathias looked from one face to another, seeking some sign of release and finding nothing to lessen his terror. Nico thought he did not look at all like a spy or a revolutionary, but was just an ordinary man. And clearly he was not a very brave one.

Hermes smiled, but there was no friendliness in it. He looked like a wolf, and a hungry one at that. Mathias shifted on his chair, squirming. “I trust you are comfortable,” Herm said very quietly, his voice menacing in spite of the pleasant words.

“Why have you dragged me up here?” Mathias half snarled, half whined. “I have done nothing wrong.”

Herm laughed. He had a deep, rumbling chuckle that Domenic was fond of, though now it seemed to take on a sinister quality. “That’s rich! Nothing wrong. You’ve been writing scandalous plays, and we found broadsheets that will have you on the gibbet.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
How am I going to get out of this?

“You are a filthy spy for the Terranan,” Herm announced.

Mathias seemed to brighten a little. “I am no such thing. I am a Son of Darkover, and I don’t have any truck with any Terranan.”

“We are all sons of Darkover here, aren’t we?” When he received no response, he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
Nico, have you ever heard of these Sons?

Curse it—why did I say that?
“We are people dedicated to the betterment of Darkover.”

“And what betterment do you intend?”

“Why, to stop slaving for the lords of the Domains and be free. There is nothing wrong with that, is there?” Mathias sounded less frightened now, as if Herm’s behavior was lulling him into a false sense of calm.

“How many lords have you encountered, and how did they make you slave for them?” Herm sounded almost amused now.

“Everyone knows that the Domains exist on the hard work and sweat of the common people, who are too stupid to realize that they are being kept in servitude.”

“That is a pretty poor opinion to have of the people you would like to save, don’t you think?” Herm sounded quite disinterested now, almost as if he were inviting the man into an intellectual discussion. Then without warning, he shifted, learning forward toward the bound Mathias, and raising his voice menacingly. “Now, tell me about the broadsheets! Where were they printed, and who wrote them?”

This change in tone made Mathias cringe back in the rush chair, and it creaked almost musically under the movement. Domenic realized that he had been prepared to declare several more outrageous sentiments, and had not expected to be asked about the damning papers. “What broadsheets?”
I knew those damn things were going to get me into hot water! I wish Dirck had never persuaded me to write them. I wish Dirck had been strangled by his birthing cord. I would not be in this mess if it were not for him!

“The ones we found in your wagon,” Herm answered calmly.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I am just a Traveling man, a poor scribner. You have no right to haul me around and tie me up like this. Who the hell are you, anyhow?” It was bluster, and needed no telepathy to be deciphered.

Duncan rolled onto the balls of his feet. In spite of his gray hair and slight paunch, the impression he gave was of a man who had just run out of patience, and was prepared to use his fists if necessary. “Don’t you take that tone. You are in enough trouble as it is. Answer the question. Where were those sheets printed?”

Mathias flinched and shivered, looking from Herm to Duncan and back again, seeking any hint of mercy. He cast a glance at Nico, frowned slightly, and swallowed hard. “I don’t know anything.”
They’ll never find the press in a million years. They will never think to look in Aldaran Castle.

Domenic conveyed this fresh information to Herm, and saw his uncle’s shoulders sag a little. Then he straightened and glowered. “Tell me about the driver of the puppet wagon.”

Now Mathias looked confused, as if he had expected more questions about the papers, and worried as well. “What about him?”

“Who is he, and where did he come from?”

“He’s just a man. He came from another band of Travelers, and he joined up with us this spring.”
Curse him. I always thought there was something wrong with the bastard. He said he was one of the Sons, but I should never have believed him. But he knew all the passwords! This is all his fault.

“What troupe of Travelers is he from?”

“I don’t remember.”
Dirck said he used to drive for Dyan Player, but he died two years ago. What do these people want from me?

“Did he put you up to writing that puppet play tonight?”

“Yes. No.”

“Which is it?”

“Dirck said we needed something stronger, that it would get the people riled up more if we told how the Towers were full of wicked people, who lived off the backs of the poor, and . . .”

“That’s enough. I don’t want to hear any of your silly cant.” Herm shook his head dismissively. “So, this Dirck suggested you write a play that involved a Keeper and Regis Hastur, and you actually wrote it. Is that right?”

“I suppose.”

“Why did you choose Regis Hastur?”

“He’s dead and can’t squawk—and a good thing, too! Everyone knows he’s been keeping behind the walls of Comyn Castle so as no one would kill him, all these years.”

“What a truly disgusting creature you are,” Herm said quietly. “Now the only question is what do we do with you?”

“I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in,” Mathias sniveled, looking perfectly terrified. “I’ll be a hero.”
The Sons will save me—if I can just get word to them.

“No one will even miss you, you sack of dirt.” Duncan growled these words, then turned away in disgust. After a moment, he turned back. “You are a disgrace to an old and respectable fellowship.”

Herm and Domenic looked at Duncan in surprise, but the man said nothing more. Instead, the old Guardsman made a gesture, suggesting that he wanted to talk out of hearing of the miserable captive. Herm nodded slightly, stepped to the door, and ordered one of the men outside to come in. Then he and Duncan left the room, and Domenic followed them.

“I take it you know something about these Sons of Darkover, Lindir.”

“Not really,
dom,
and it took me a few minutes to remember that I had heard of them before. But I think that Istvan has a brother who is a member—shall I fetch him?”

“Yes, that would be very useful.” Duncan walked away and went down the stairs. The second Guard remained beside the door, trying to fade into the paneling on the wall behind him, but was clearly very curious.

“Well, nephew, what do you think?”

“I think that we might learn more from Mathias, but I don’t think it would be very useful. I don’t believe he knows very much, not really.” Nico paused and thought for a moment. “What we do not know is how many other of the Travelers are involved in this. It might be that there is only Vancof, with this group, but it could be that there are Federation spies in others. So, I think that all the Travelers need to be found, wherever they are, and detained.”

“A good idea. How do we go about that?”

“I’ll tell Lew what we have learned, and he can get the Tower relays humming, and before morning, they can be located. I will leave it to someone else to decide what to do with them—I am so tired, Uncle!”

“Of course you are. You have been pulling extra duty being the message center for our little effort.”

“Little!”

“All right—that was too modest a word. Would ‘enor mous’ please you more?”

“Nothing would please me except another bath, a second supper, and bed for about three days.”

Duncan returned with another man, introduced him as Istvan MacRoss, and looked very pleased with himself. He gave Nico a droll look, and Domenic smiled back at him. It felt very good to have trusted retainers around him just then.

“Tell me what you know about the Sons of Darkover, Istvan.”

Istvan grinned. He had a scar across his forehead and cheek, and the smile make him look very frightening. “Not much,
vai dom.
My younger brother was a member, years back, and since it is a secret fellowship, did not tell me a great deal. They call themselves the Ancient and Loyal Sons of Darkover, and they came into being during the final years of Danvan Hastur’s rule. A fine-sounding name for a rabble of discontents who have never done much that I can tell except gather together to piss and moan about how they could run things much better if they could only think of how to do it.”

“What do they want?”

“There I am not sure, except something different. They do not regard the Domains with any love—that was what made my brother leave them after a couple of years—but I never heard of them doing anything against the Comyn. I think what they really like is being secret—having passwords and all manner of nonsense.”

“Do you think there is a branch of the organization here in Carcosa?”

“Might be. See, the way they do it is like this. They never get together in groups larger than six, and only one of those six knows how to reach another. They call the divisions rhowyns, after the six-petaled flower of that tree. Pretty silly, really, for if something happens to the man who knows, they are out of luck.”

“I see. A pretty ordinary secret society setup—and no way to find them unless you know the passwords or something.”

“Just so, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Since he seems to have vanished, there is nothing I can think of, unless you have some means to track his whereabouts, nephew.
“Tell me, Istvan, do you believe these Sons are any real threat to the Comyn?”

“I could not say,
dom,
but from what I learned from my brother, they are more talk than action.”

“Do you imagine they might use the excuse of Regis Hastur’s death to foment some sort of uprising?”

Istvan looked horrified. “I don’t, but I might be wrong.”