9.

Domenic spent the rest of the afternoon plotting his escape from Comyn Castle, with a kind of glee he had never felt before. His grief and his fears faded into faint shadows, even though finding a way out of the vast building was more complicated than he had imagined. There were servants everywhere, and most of the exits were closely guarded. He would have to do a lot of sneaking, something he had very little practice in. The more he thought about that part the more attractive the entire scheme became. It was odd, really, and he felt possessed by some imp of wickedness in those occasional moments when he allowed himself to reflect.

If only there were not a banquet planned for the evening, it would have been simpler. But the arrival of his grandparents as well as several other members of the Comyn Council demanded such a meal, and Domenic knew he was expected to be present. He could think of nothing he wished for less than to spend several hours with Javanne glaring at him, or worse, pretending he was not even in the room. And Gareth Elhalyn was likely to be there as well. What was it about his cousin that made him so uneasy? On the other hand, it would certainly be an interesting meal, since Herm Aldaran and his family would be present, and perhaps that would distract Javanne from paying too much attention to him.

For several minutes he came close to abandoning his foolish idea. Nico found himself alternating between excitement and despair, fearful of the consequences and yet enthralled at the same time. Then he scolded himself for faint-heartedness. Rory would not hesitate over such minor considerations as duty and good manners. Maybe he should ask Rory to help him. His brother knew all the back ways and little used corridors of the building, and often employed them for his own mischief. But he rejected the idea. Certainly Rory would show him how to escape, but he would insist on coming along. It would not be an adventure if he went with his younger brother, would it? More, his brother was almost always in some sort of trouble, and it would not sit well with his parents if he got his sibling into more. Nico chuckled a little over this, knowing he was making excuses to himself. The plain truth was he wanted to get away with no one being the wiser, including, or perhaps especially, his brother.

But, how was he going to get out of attending the meal? He wracked his brains and could think of nothing immediately. Just when he was almost ready to give it up completely, Ida Davidson came to his rescue. The ancient woman had been a part of his family for as long as he could remember, and Nico felt she should have been his granny, instead of Javanne. He could barely remember Diotima Ridenow, Lew's late wife, who had died when he was about five. So Ida had filled in the space where he felt a grandmother should be, listening to his small complaints without making him feel like a dolt, giving him music lessons, and when he turned out to be fumble-fingered at the clavier, the guitar, or any other instrument more complex than a drum, she had schooled him in song. Both his parents were very musical, but he and Rory seemed not to be. Ida's kindness and patience had helped him over his feelings of inadequacy and now he could sing well enough not to disgrace himself. After his voice changed, he had turned into a reasonable tenor, and actually enjoyed the little quartet consisting of himself, Rory, and his uncle Rafael's two younger children, Gabriel and Damon.

"Nico," the old lady said, peering at him a bit short-sightedly, "are you quite well? You look a bit peaked."

"Do I?" He considered her remark briefly, and brightened internally. "I am feeling a bit off. Achey, you know?" He did not ache at all, and knew his appearance was the result of his internal struggle. Ida had no laran, and was never suspicious of him. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? Roderick often played sick when he did not want to do something, but Nico had never employed that ruse. Part of him hated fibbing to Ida, but another was practically bouncing with joy. Maybe Alanna was not the only one who felt she was more than one person.

"With all the furor we have had, I am not surprised. Now, off to bed with you. The last thing you need to do is sit through a long dinner, and if you are getting sick, you will just share your germs with everyone. I'll have one of the servants bring you a tray."

His heart sank. The servants! That would ruin everything. "My appetite seems to be gone, Ida." The lie rolled off his tongue as if he had been doing it for years. "If I get hungry, I'll ring for something."

"Not hungry?" She shook her head. "You must be coming down with something, if you aren't hungry. Scoot. I will tell your mother."

Nico scooted, going off to his bedroom. He listened to the sounds in the suite, the movement of servants and his parents and siblings. Then he got into his nightshirt and crawled into bed, sure his mother would come to check on him before she went to dinner. He could hardly contain his excitement, and tried to relax.

Marguerida came in, wearing a long blue gown embroidered with silver flowers, the Hastur colors. As she came toward the bed, he could smell her particular perfume, lavender mingled with musk. She bent over him and swept his forehead with a mitted hand. "Poor Nico. You do not feel hot, but you look rather pale. What is it?"

"I haven't been sleeping very well, and I think I am just tired, Mother." He could get away with telling Ida a lie, but with Marguerida it was more difficult, and he had never even tried before. And it was close to a real truth, for in sleep he could hear the fire in the heart of the world, and the rumbling deep inside the earth, or thought he could. Worse, in dreams he found himself trying to halt the sea in its endless motion, and do other things that were too incredible to be considered. So, he avoided sleep as much as he was able, using the trance states he had learned at Arilinn as a substitute.

"Not sleeping well? You should have told me. Shall I get you a sleeping draught?"

"I don't think I need that, and besides they leave me feeling stupid in the morning." If Marguerida ordered a draught, and stood over him while he drank it, his plan would be ruined.

"Very well. I hate the things myself, although these past few days I have drunk more of them than I wished. Just when I am ready to drop off, I think of something else that I should have attended to and start up in the bed. Which wakes your father, and he really needs his rest."

"I'll be fine. I think I'll just read for a while. I have this really boring book I started about six months ago somewhere around here, and it should have me asleep in five minutes. Save your fussing for our guests, Mother. I am sure you have better things to do than worry about me." He gave her a droll look, and she answered with a wan smile. They both knew he meant Javanne Hastur, who was never easy to deal with, and with Regis' death, was likely to be even more difficult than usual.

"What book is that?" Nico knew that when his mother had come to Darkover, books had been uncommon except in the homes of the Domains, and most of those had been imports. She had made it one of her projects to promote literacy, and with her friend, Rafaella n'ha Liriel, the Renunciate who had been her guide and friend during her first months on Darkover, had started a small publishing enterprise. The Renunciates had begun printing handbills and other single pages years before, but had never expanded beyond leaflets into actual books. Until Marguerida had founded the Alton Press, most books had been handcopied, slowly and painstakingly, and were kept in the archives of the Castle or the various Towers.

Now there was a young Binders Guild, separate from the Tanners Guild which had always done that task before, and editions of five hundred volumes were not uncommon. With the help of Thendara House, the Renunciate headquarters, two small schools had been established, one near the Horse Market and one in Threadneedle Street, and the sons and daughters of tradesmen were encouraged to attend. It was a small step, she had told him, but at least a beginning. Marguerida had written a volume of folktales for publication and use in the small schools, stories she had collected in her travels around Darkover and from other worlds as well, and it was now in its fifth printing.

"Oh, that tome that Hiram d'Asturien wrote about the evolution of laran."

She laughed, and the sound of it was wonderful. His mother had not laughed very often in recent days, and he had not known how much he missed it until now. "What he has to say is useful, but I agree that his style leaves something to be desired. Positively soporific, actually. But I am a little surprised to find that you were looking at it. Any particular reason?"

"I was just curious." Another fib, though not a very big one. He was curious, but the actuality was that he had hoped to discover some clues to his own uniqueness, to find out if anyone before him had been able to hear the planet. He could not discuss it with anyone, even his mother, whom he trusted completely.

"Good. Never lose that quality, Nico." Then she kissed his brow lightly and left, apparently satisfied.

He waited impatiently until the suite was quiet and he could hear no nearby thoughts at all. Then Nico scrambled out of bed, took off his nightshirt and put on his oldest tunic and some patched trousers, plus his riding boots: He took a shabby cloak that he was particularly fond of and refused to stop wearing and looked around the bedroom. He stuffed several pillows down under the covers, in the shape of a body, and pulled the blanket over the head. He studied his handiwork and thought it would do until he returned. Then he snuffed the candles, sending the room into near darkness. The light from the little fireplace hardly reached the bed, and cast several nice shadows that concealed his deceit. Nico was quite pleased with himself.

He slipped out of the suite by the servants' stair, and started down the back corridor in the direction of the huge kitchens. Even at a distance, he could hear the clamor of pot and pans, the shouting of the head cook at her minions, all in preparation for the meal to be served. Then he heard someone coming toward him and he darted into the first doorway he found, his heart hammering with excitement. It was very dark within, and from the smell of it, he was in the stillroom. After a second he heard footfalls pass the door, and knew who it was. Just one of the lads who turned the spits in the kitchens, all his thoughts concerned with fetching something for Cook.

As soon as silence returned to the corridor, Nico slipped out and tiptoed along. When he crept past the great door to the kitchen, he heard Cook swearing a bit at someone's clumsiness with the dessert tarts. His mouth watered. He should have eaten before he set out. Maybe he could get something at a foodstall. He had done that a few times before, not nearly as often as he wished, for he found the taste of street food much more interesting than what was served in the Castle. Had he brought any coins? Yes, there were a few in his beltpouch.

Despite the chill of early evening, the door to the alley that ran from the kitchen past the bakery was propped open a bit. He darted into the shadowed way, feeling more excited by the second. Was this why Rory did the naughty things he did? What a fool he had been to let his little brother have all the fun!

The heat from the walls of the bakery was pleasant, and he almost regretted it when he passed beyond. He pulled up the hood on his cloak and moved quietly behind the barracks where the Guards lived, praying he would not meet anyone. From the noise, he knew the off-duty Guardsmen were eating their evening meal. It was a friendly, jocular sound, and he thought how much he enjoyed it when he ate with them. They did not defer to him at the table, but treated him as just another young man, and please pass the platter.

At last he came out into a narrow street, and turned right. It was deserted, but the houses on either side were alight, and he could hear occasional voices. A few minutes of walking, and Comyn Castle was behind him, and his fear of discovery began to evaporate. The street wound around and came back to a larger thoroughfare, and went on into a little square. There were torches on the faces of the buildings, and he saw a foodstall on the far side.

A pair of burly draymen were standing in front of it, waiting for the old man who ran it to serve them up pockets of flat bread stuffed with chunks of roasted fowl. It smelled wonderful. Nico was glad he had not eaten first, because it seemed more of an adventure to get his supper on the street.

In the flickering light from the torches, he realized he looked quite ordinary in his old and disreputable garments. No one would ever suspect who he was. When the draymen had been served, he stepped forward, sniffing hungrily. He listened to the conversation of the men, talking with their mouths full. They were complaining in cheerful tones which belied their words about how poorly they had been tipped for some moving job they had done. He guessed that they were enjoying their mutters of discontent about the stinginess of their employers, and that this was a normal subject of conversation.

Nico asked for a serving, and the old man slipped several pieces of meat off a slender wooden skewer and plopped them onto a crusty slab of bread, rolling the bread around the filling to make it easier to eat. He dug out his smallest coin and handed it over. Then he sank his teeth into the rolled-up bread, tasting the spices that the fowl had been marinated in. It was delicious. Why didn't they serve such good things at the Castle?

He left the square still eating, and walked quickly down the street, heading for the North Gate. The evening wind cooled his face and ruffled his unbound hair, but he barely noticed. He was having a wonderful time, just being alone and listening to the night sounds of Thendara. He finished his food, found his face was a little greasy, and grinned. Then he wiped his sleeve over his cheeks. No napkins or linens for him tonight! And, even better, no Javanne ruining his appetite!

After half an hour of unhurried walking, he saw some people ahead of him on the street. They were heading toward the Gate, and he slowed so as not to catch up with them. When they passed beneath some torches he realized that they were dressed in Terranan leathers, and wondered what they were doing outside the Trade City. It was not forbidden for off-duty Terrans to venture into Thendara proper, but even Nico knew it was a bit uncommon. Well, maybe they were bored and had heard that the Travelers were performing.

But it was a bit puzzling. He had overheard a few things in the last couple of days, from his father or Grandfather Lew, and had gotten the impression that there was some sort of order from the Federation that restricted their people from leaving Headquarters. Oh, well, perhaps he had misunderstood, or the Terrans had changed their minds. The only thing he was really sure of was that Darkovan personnel had been ordered to leave both the space port and the Headquarters complex. He had seen Ethan MacDoevid, his mother's protege from Threadneedle Street, coming into the hall just as he was going out for his Guard duty, and was sure that he had come to tell Grandfather Lew something interesting.

He knew the story of how Ethan and his mother had met very well, for she was very fond of recounting it. Ethan and his cousin Geremy had met Marguerida coming out of the port the day she returned to Darkover, and the lads had guided her to master Everard's house in Music Street, becoming friends along the way. She had a way of telling the tale that made her first impressions very vivid. The boy-he had been a bit younger than Nico was now-had confided to her his longing to go on the Big Ships, and later she had been instrumental in getting him the chance to learn the things he needed to become a spacefarer. He had acquired the skills, but the opportunity had never come to him, since the Federation had changed its policies about allowing personnel from Protected Planets to man their ships, so he had never gone into space.

When Rafe Scott had been forced to retire from HQ, Ethan had taken over many of the duties of Liaison that Scott had performed. Nico knew, from a few conversations with him, that this had not entirely pleased Ethan, but he did his work with a good will. The appointment had annoyed several people on the Council, since Ethan was the son of a tradesman, not the Domains, and Marguerida's protege as well. However, it had turned out to be a good choice, and he could only wonder what Ethan was going to do now, if the Federation left, and there was no need for a Liaison officer, and even if they didn't, they weren't going to let any native Darkovans stick around HQ. He could hardly go back to his father's tailoring business after so many years.

Domenic noticed that there was something hasty and nervous about the men ahead of him, and it sent all speculations about Ethan's future right out of his mind. He found their behavior very interesting, and puzzling as well. One second they were moving along like two fellows out for a good time, and the next they were peering into the shadows, as if they expected to be attacked. If they had wanted to be anonymous, they should not have come in their distinctive leathers. Typical Terranan arrogance. What were they up to? If they wanted female companionship, they would have stayed in the Trade City. He gave a slight shrug under his shabby cloak, and decided it was not important, and that it just added a bit of spice to his thus far unadventurous evening.

Nico was beginning to feel slightly foolish about the whole thing. Just because his mother said he was too well-behaved was no reason to be sneaking out in the night, leaving some bolsters in his place on the bed, was it? He was tempted to turn around and go back before his absence was discovered. But that was hen-hearted, and besides he was not doing anything very terrible.

This whole thing is a waste of time-we could be back in the barracks now, warm and comfy, instead of out in this wretched cold. Vancof will not have anything to tell us-he never has before. God, I hate this planet. I won't get reassigned to anything better, since I haven't managed to make any kind of name for myself here. Belfontaine is crazy of he thinks he can turn this around before we have to leave. I will be glad to get off Cottman. The sooner the better. Damn fool backwater place.

Domenic heard this jumble of thoughts, the usual disorganized muddle, and almost stumbled. Cottman? He must be picking up one of the men ahead of him-only Terranan called Darkover that. And who was Vancof? Were the men expecting to meet someone outside the Gate? Why would they do that? It did not make any sense at all.

The name was strange, and clearly not a Darkovan one. Why would these men go to meet a Terran outside the gates? Suddenly the whole episode took on a darker tone. The men were not in search of entertainment, but were going for some other purpose. He moved faster, hoping to overhear them speak, or catch another snatch of thoughts. It was not as if he were spying, since he could not help listening to the uppermost thoughts of other people. Still, it made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

The men passed through the arch of the North Gate, and Nico followed them. Beyond the Gate there were half dozen firepits blazing away, as well as torches set in stands. After the relative darkness of the streets, it seemed more light than it really was. Nico could see several of the painted wagons of the Travelers on one side of the huge field. On the other there were foodstands and booths that sold trinkets. Just beyond the stands there were groups of mules tethered to ropes and a couple of wagons piled with goods. Briefly he wondered why the muleteers were camping out there. Then he decided that it likely saved them the cost of stabling for the night. There seemed so many things he did not know, and he felt rather annoyed. Some education he had had!

One of the Travelers' wagons had its side lowered, and there was a juggler standing on the platform, fearlessly tossing small lighted torches in the air. He had four of the things in motion, and was declaiming at the same time. Nico moved toward this display, fascinated. The redheaded girl was nowhere in sight, and the side of the puppet wagon was pulled up and shut. Maybe they had already performed, and he had missed it.

He joined the crowd of watchers, listening to the jibes of the juggler and the catcalls of the audience as well. The smell of cheap beer and unwashed clothing was all around him. It was a rough bunch of people, men and women both, and even a few children, wide-eyed with wonder. But it was not an unruly crowd-they were just having a good time on a not unpleasant evening. In a few weeks, it would be too cold for this sort of thing, so everyone was making the most of the mild weather and a chance to have some harmless fun.

The two men in Terran leathers stood in the crowd for several minutes, their backs toward him. They were both big men, broad shouldered and well-muscled. One had dark brown hair and the other was a blond, but other than that there was very little difference between them. They stared at the performance dully, as if they were waiting for something or someone.

Just when Domenic was starting to think they had come to see one of the girl acrobats or dancers in the scanty garments that had scandalized some of the people at Arilinn, one of the men made a gesture with his head, signaling his partner. They slipped off quietly, and vanished between two of the parked wagons. They did not look like men seeking the company of a woman, and, as far as he had ever heard, Travelers did not offer that sort of custom. Of course, with his abysmal ignorance of things beyond the walls of Comyn Castle, almost anything seemed possible. But there were easier pickings in the taverns in the Trade City, if all they wanted was a bedwarmer.

For just a moment, he hesitated. Then he could not resist. He wanted to find out what they were up to. Nico slipped through the crowd unnoticed, and went toward the space between the two wagons. Then he leaned against one and bent over, tugging at one of the laces on his boots, as if it had become undone and needed to be retied. His cloak fell around him, concealing his movements. No one seemed to be paying him the least attention, and he was relieved.

Nico's blood was pounding in his ears, and for a minute he could hear nothing but the noises of his body. Why was he spying on these men? Because they did not belong where they were and, he admitted to himself a little grudgingly, because he was extremely curious as to what had brought them there. He could just catch the sound of whispering, hushed and cautious, speaking in Terran. He had learned that language from his mother and grandfather, but he had a little trouble following the words at first. He leaned toward the narrow passage between the wagons and strained to hear. Finally he was able to distinguish three males, as they stopped whispering and began to speak in low tones.

"You haven't sent a message in six days." The voice was harsh, and sounded a little angry.

"If I had a shortbeam, it would be easier," one voice whined. Nico wondered what that meant.

"Too risky, and you know it. Besides, the damn things only work half the time."

"I've been busy. And there hasn't been anything much."

"Busy?" The harsh voice sounded disbelieving.

"Driving the wagon and managing the mules is a full time job! I broke a wheel to get into Thendara, and managed to drive across the city, but I did not find out much. The old bastard, Regis Hastur, is dead, but you already know that." Now, as the whining voice spoke further, Domenic recognized it. It was the driver of the puppet wagon he had seen that morning! What had the girl called him-Dirck?

Domenic nearly gasped and almost missed the reply. "No, we did not know that! Damn you, Vancof. You are incompetent. You did not think it was important, when we have been waiting for an opportunity like this for years. A pity it had to happen just when we are getting ready to pull out."

"Pull out? Are you sure?" He did not seem very much like the unpleasant fellow who had been so rude to Kendrick now, but sounded uneasy, as if he were frightened of the men with him.

"Of course I'm sure! That's the word from Command, and we will leave at the end of the month." If the Federation doesn't desert us! The speaker sounded annoyed and amused at the same time. "But if Hastur is gone, then maybe those plans will change. What's going to happen?"

There was a hacking noise and someone spat. "He is going to be buried in a few days, and then his heir will be his nephew, Mikhail Hastur."

"I see." Domenic was almost certain this was the man whose thoughts he had overheard earlier, though he could not have said how he knew. "We don't know much about him." There was a thoughtful pause. "They take their kings to that thing up north, don't they? The roo something."

"Yes, they do." The driver sounded alert now, and wary as well.

"This has possibilities, Vancof-real possibilities. You might finally start earning the enormous salary we pay you."

"If you say so," came a sullen reply. I haven't been paid an three months, and what I do get, when I get it, is hardly enormous. He's up to something. Damn him.

The other man went on, thinking aloud. "Our problem has always been that we have never been able to really get into Comyn Castle. We have tried seven times to put an agent into place, and failed. The servants don't bribe, and they rarely talk." He sounded extremely disgruntled by this, even speaking in a near whisper. "And all the positions are inherited, so we can't do anything. But once this fellow is out of the Castle, it should be fairly easy to take him out."

"Take him . . . ? How?"

"Oh, an ambush along the road, I think. You should be able to manage that. Find a good spot, Vancof, and the Chief will think you are a wonderful fellow." Even in a hushed voice, there was no mistaking the contempt in the words.

There was a snorting sound, a derisive and humorless laugh. "You expect me to get through a few hundred Guardsmen and find one man I've never even seen?"

"I'll get you some help."

"Granfell, have you lost your mind? Do you really believe that you can just . . . you think that killing is the answer to everything." This as bad, very bad. I don't want to be involved. But Granfell wall stick a knife an me without thinking twice about it.

"When's this funeral thing?"

"There will be some kind of ceremony in Thendara in a couple of days, and then they'll carry the body north. It hasn't happened in a long time, but if what I have heard is right, all the heads of the Domains are supposed to accompany the body to the rhu fead."

"Really-that is even better! We have time to make some preparations. Good. With a little cleverness, we can destroy not just this Michael person, but most of the rest of these . . . "

"Planning to land a troop of fighters up the road, are you?" The driver was sneering in spite of his own fright. "Think that no one will notice? You don't understand Cottman, Granfell, and you never have. And I don't think the Chief will like your plan either. He got into trouble before, and if he wants to advance, he can't afford to do it again."

This is my chance to make a name for myself, and I am not going to let this bastard get an my way. We can destablize Cottman, or take out most of their ruling class, and then the Federation can step in and take over. Then I'll be able to have my pick of any posting. I'll jump three grades of rank, at least.

Granfell is out of his mind! I can see it in his face. He was always a little crazy. He is going to get me killed with his ambitions! He just wants to impress the Chief. But I have my own skin to think about. Trying to assassinate Mikhail Hastur is just plain stupid. He won't believe me, though, so I better pretend to go along for now.

Nico was so startled by what he had just overheard that it took him a moment to realize he was catching the thoughts of both of the men in leathers. His heart was pounding with fear and excitement now, and he felt frozen in place.

"You better talk to the Chief, Granfell. And don't come back here in those clothes. You stand out like a virgin at the orgy." It was the driver again, holding back his fears. Nico could sense a desire for wine in the man's surface thoughts-a great deal of wine.

"You whining . . . you don't think I'd go around wearing the rags these barbarians do, do you?"

"Fine. It's your neck."

With these words, Domenic decided that he had heard enough, and moved away quietly. He slipped back into the crowd, trying to appear inconspicuous. After a few moments, he knew he had succeeded, since no one was paying him the least attention. The juggler was done now, and had been replaced by a skinny man who was telling a long story. The audience did not seem very interested, but they were not ready to start booing just yet. He barely noticed, his mind racing.

What should he do now? Part of Nico wanted to race back to Comyn Castle and tell someone what he had overheard. But how was he going to explain being there? And why would anyone take him seriously? They'd probably just think he was making the whole thing up to keep from getting punished for his adventure.

Who would believe him? Well, his mother would, after she recovered from being very angry. He shivered lightly in anticipation. Danilo Syrtis-Ardais would also realize that he was not joking. He had never lied before, unlike his little brother. But what could they do? His father? True, Mikhail had told him not a day before that he was always ready to listen to his eldest son, but somehow Nico did not feel that he could just walk into Mikhail's study and announce that there was a plot to kill him. The words stuck in his throat. He was afraid of upsetting his father just now. Things were not right at Comyn Castle, and he did not want to add to the tension. Once all the heads of the Domains arrived, there would be a Council meeting to confirm his father's succession, and after that everyone would be less jumpy. One did not need to be a Ridenow to know that anticipation of that meeting, which promised to be loud and probably acrimonious, was weighing heavily on his parents' minds.

Still, he had to do something, and quickly. He turned and started to leave, then stopped. He was thinking like a scared child. First, he needed to get a grip on himself, before he did anything! Calm down, Domenic, and slow down, too-nothing is going to happen tonight.

After a minute, during which his mind raced in several directions at once, he began to sort out his feelings from everything else. No one but him knew what Vancof looked like. And the others, too. He glanced around, looking for the two men in leathers, but they seemed to have vanished. No, there they were, walking back to the Gate-and he had never gotten so much as a glimpse of their faces! Some spy he was. Would he know them again, from the backs of their heads and the way they held their shoulders? He was torn for a moment-should he track them back into the city, go back to the Castle, or remain where he was? At last he decided he might know the men again, and that it was probably best to stay where he was for a while longer. His hoped-for adventure was turning into something unexpected, and there was no need to rush, was there?

How had a Terranan ended up driving a Traveler's wain? He wanted to know more now. Maybe he should have stayed near the wagons and listened a little longer, or used the Alton Gift to force information from the minds of the strangers . . . the idea repelled him. Mother was right-he was too good.

Domenic realized how frightened he was, and how alone he felt. He wanted to run away, and at the same time, he wanted to stay. He had to keep an eye on things, didn't he? It was his duty. But he could not just go off . . . well, why not? He was trying to protect his father, wasn't he? And all the others. And then he realized that he did not want to hand the problem over to the adults, that he wanted to be there-to have an adventure. If he went back now, he would be punished and perhaps not taken seriously.

If he had not been so curious about the redheaded girl, none of this would have happened, and the plot would not have been discovered. If it was a plot, if this Chief-they almost certainly meant Belfontaine-went ahead with Granfell's plan. And if he went back and told everyone, and was believed, he would be trapped. His parents would surround him with so many guards he would not be able to breathe. He would be relegated to being just a boy again.

Domenic could not bear the thought of that happening. This was his adventure, and he was determined to see it through to the end. He was sick and tired of being a prisoner in Comyn Castle, and returning guaranteed that he would remain so. On the other hand, running off in the night would make his parents both afraid and angry. He did not want to consider that fact, but he had to. It meant he had to tell someone who would understand and believe him, and who would not instantly drag him back.

There was only one person he could think of who would know what to do. Lew Alton. His grandfather always understood. He would keep Marguerida and Mikhail from worrying, and tell Nico how to proceed. It took some of the keenness out of the adventure, but he had to act responsibly, didn't he? There was a small sense of relief at this thought, the decision to trust Lew.

Nico walked across the field toward the foodstalls. Then he hunkered down beside one of the open fires, pulled his hood over his head, and concentrated. He hoped he looked like some weary boy, warming himself, because he wanted to remain invisible for the present. He closed his eyes and focused.

Grandfather!

Nico? What is it?

I . . . I'm not in bed sick. I just pretended to be sick so I could sneak out and . . .

Visiting the fleshpots of Thendara, are you? There was a sense of amusement in that thought.

No, Grandfather. The idea shocked Nico slightly, that he would sneak out to visit a joyhouse, but he knew from things the Guardsmen said that other boys his age did such things. I am out at the field by the North Gate-I wanted to see the Travelers perform. But I heard something-there were two men in Terran dress just ahead of me in the street, and they came and talked to someone there, a man called Vancof. I saw him earlier today, driving a Traveler's wagon. I think he is a spy or . . . an assassin.

A spy? If Rory was telling this fabulation, I would not believe ham, but you, Nico! Go on.

The Terranans watched a juggler, then snuck off behind a wagon. So, I went and listened. I mean, it seemed strange to me that two men in those uniforms that look like leathers would come out here to see the Travelers. One is named Granfell, but I don't know the other one's name. And Vancof said that Regis had died-which I guess Granfell did not know-and Granfell said that it seemed like a good idea to try and kill Father on the way to the rhu fead. And others, too. Vancof tried to persuade him this was a bad idea, but Granfell seems very ambitious and . . . this Vancof thinks he is a little mad, too.

Slow down, Nico. Are you telling me that there is an agent of Terran Intelligence masquerading as a Traveler?