What if the Federation's planned retreat had forced Granfell's hand? With a sick feeling, Belfontaine realized that his hatred of Cottman had led him to isolate himself, to depend on Miles Granfell, whom he knew to be a discontented and ambitious man. But until now he had always believed he could trust the man not to overstep himself.

"Let us take one thing at a time, shall we?"

Miles was not satisfied, if the angry jerk of his shoulders was anything to judge by. "Why wait? I thought you would jump at the chance."

"There are several ways to approach this situation, Miles, and not all of them involve the wholesale slaughter of a hundred or more people."

"Very well. But I will send Nailors off in the morning to tell Vancof to scout out a possible site for an ambush." He paused, as if something disturbed him, something he did not want to say. "Uh, there is a little problem. Vancof says he wants written orders from you before he goes ahead. And a shortbeam transmitter, too. Funny, isn't it, how much of our current technology fails to work on Cottman, but things we abandoned hundreds of years ago still do."

"A transmitter? I don't much care for that idea. The locals are backward and self-absorbed, but not so much so that they would fail to notice illegal technology . . ." Written orders? Was that really Vancof's idea, or was Miles trying to create trouble for him? One thing the disaster on Lein III had taught him was to never leave any evidence behind, and here was Granfell suggesting that he do exactly that. The whole thing smelled. No, it stank!

"I don't think there is much real danger that it will be discovered and recognized as prohibited technology, do you?" Granfell brushed aside Lyle's mild objection with an abrupt gesture, his face animated in the yellow glow from a nearby light. "And perhaps we might see about creating a bit of havoc in Thendara itself-something to keep those stupid City Guards busy."

Belfontaine gave the taller man a hard look. On the surface he seemed just as he always had, a ruthless, restless man with grand ambitions. But underneath-Lyle sensed a tension that he could not quite read. Granfell was too eager for Belfontaine's comfort, and the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that Granfell could not have come up with such a plan on the spur of the moment. He didn't believe Granfell was that clever. And suggesting sending a piece of off-world technology to a man who was a poor spy, although an efficient assassin when he was not drinking too heavily, made no sense and roused a finger of unease in his already unsettled belly.

Yes, it was clear now. Granfell could not be trusted, and he was probably in league with either the Planetary Administrator, Grayson, or with Lord Aldaran. Hmm . . . for all he knew, Miles was in league with Lew Alton, and this was why the news of Hastur's death had not reached him. Stranger things had happened. He drew a breath, forcing himself to keep his imagination in check.

"Do what you can," he answered with as much outward indifference as he could manage, while inwardly seething. "And have Nailors see me before he leaves-I'll think about the shortbeam."

Granfell turned and walked away without a word, leaving Belfontaine alone in the cold. After a minute, he turned and walked toward his own quarters, deep in thought. Surely he had neutralized Grayson sufficiently. Besides, the man was not much of a schemer. So it must be Aldaran. Unless Alton was part of the plot, too. No, this seemed unlikely in the extreme. It had to be Dom Damon, didn't it, with his desire to become the real power on Cottman.

Abruptly, Belfontaine turned and went back into the HQ Building. He had to find out if Granfell had been in secret communication with Dom Damon-the idea had never occurred to him until now. What an idiot he was! He had such contempt for the old man that he had not seen the danger at all. And there were those sons of his, too. Why had Hermes Aldaran returned so suddenly? Or perhaps it was the older one, Robert, who was conspiring with Granfell. Just because he appeared the soul of probity did not mean he had no desire to succeed to his father's place.

They must all be in this together! There was no other reasonable explanation for Herm Aldaran to have come back so conveniently. Somehow the old man or Robert must have sent for him-his return had nothing to do with the dissolution of the legislature! That had been a mere coincidence. He must find a way to get Hermes away from Comyn Castle. He knew ways to get information out of a man!

Frustration welled up in his throat, leaving his mouth sour and dry. Lew Alton had not even bothered to reply to his demand for the return of Herm Aldaran. He felt ignored-no, worse-dismissed as unimportant. Well, he would just have to do something-perhaps send a message to this Mikhail Hastur instead. Or go to Comyn Castle himself and demand a meeting. He shuddered all over. He would not risk his dignity by going-no, he would make someone come to him! And if it was Lew Alton, the man would never leave HQ alive.

For a moment, he dwelt on this satisfying idea, enjoying the images that danced in his mind. Then Lyle scolded himself. Alton was too smart to risk it, and he knew it. And he was being hasty, jumping to conclusions without enough real evidence, wasn't he? No! On the contrary, he knew in his gut that he was right-that his constant fear and paranoia had some foundation.

As his chilled feet hit the floor of the corridor leading toward the Communications Office, Belfontaine felt the enormity of the plot swell in his mind. The heat of the building was almost stifling after the cold outside, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his narrow brow. He pulled off his cloak with an angry yank, then wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The water-resistant fabric of his uniform refused to absorb the moisture, and he was forced to use his hand, which he loathed doing.

The Communications Office was empty except for one sleepy-eyed clerk who stared at him with a gaping jaw before leaping up hastily and saluting gracelessly. Belfontaine ignored him until he found a tissue and wiped his hands. "Has there been any word from Regional?"

"No, sir. It has been quiet all during my shift." The clerk looked uneasy, as if he wanted to ask questions but dared not.

"No news is good news, perhaps. Why don't you take a break-have some synthecaf or something. Bring me some, too."

The clerk didn't react at first, just looked mildly surprised. He was not supposed to leave his post unless he was relieved. Then comprehension stole over his face. "Yes, sir. That would be very pleasant."

Belfontaine watched him leave, and realized that it had been a mistake to come there. Too late. He knew the clerk would talk unless he could find a way to stop him, and he did not want his visit to be the gossip of HQ by dawn. He would worry about that later.

He sat down in the still warm chair vacated a minute before and tapped a few commands into the keyboard. The thing was old, the keys soiled with use, and some of them were sluggish to respond. Another economy-the keyboard should have been replaced long since.

It had been several years since Belfontaine had actually used a communications array, but he had not forgotten how. This pleased him. It took only a few strokes to call up the records he had in mind, then transfer them to the display in his office. There was no way to remove the traces of his use, however, if anyone wished to discover what he had been up to. He could only hope that the clerk's evident boredom and sleepiness would prevent him searching for what had occurred.

When the faint tattoo of approaching footsteps came to his ears, he cleared the board, rose, and returned to the spot where he had been standing before. He whistled tunelessly, a nervous habit he had never quite managed to break. When the clerk came in with two disposable containers a moment later, Belfontaine took one calmly.

"It must be rather boring sitting here all night," he commented.

"Yes, sir, but I am used to it now."

"Still, I have been a little lax about rotating the shifts, I think. How long have you had the night shift?"

"Eight months or so, sir. Ever since I was posted to Cottman."

Ah, good-he was a recent transfer. And from his nervousness, probably easily intimidated. "That is much too long! I'll see about having you transferred to days for a while."

"But, sir . . . aren't we . . . I mean?"

Lyle gave him a coy look, trying to appear amused. "I think you deserve to be put on days for the foreseable future," he announced. "If that would suit you."

The disconcerted clerk looked down into his cup. "It does rather interfere with my social life, always being awake at night and asleep most of the day," he admitted. "And I don't have the seniority to get a better shift, so I didn't even ask."

"Got a lady friend in the Trade City, do you?"

"I wouldn't call her a lady, sir."

Belfontaine laughed as lewdly as he could manage, and the clerk smiled timidly. "Well, tomorrow I'll change your shift. I am glad I came in tonight. I have had so much on my mind that I haven't been giving as much attention to my men as I should." The words were as sour in his mouth as the revolting liquid in his cup. He hated synthecaf.

"Was there something you wanted, or were you just . . . restless, sir?"

"I could not sleep, so I went for a walk, and then I just found myself here. Habit, I suppose. I began my career at a message array, and a room like this seems very homey to me. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no particular reason, sir, except I've never seen you around at night. But I think we are all a little restless, with things being so unsettled."

Belfontaine nodded, as if he accepted this explanation. "Unsettled. That's a good word for it." Then a worm of suspicion uncoiled in his mind. "I suppose I am not the only one wandering around in the corridors."

"No, sir. Clerk Gretrian said that Captain Granfell stopped in during her shift, and then he came back again a while ago. Just looked in and gave me a hello."

"Did he now?"

"Yes, sir. And two nights ago, or maybe three-they all start to run together after a while-I saw Administrator Grayson's assistant, too. Hmm. It seems to me that she's been here other times as well, even before the order to get the indigines off the complex came through."

"My goodness! I had no idea." Belfontaine wanted very much to ask if Grayson's assistant, a half-Cottman woman who had been raised in the John Reade Orphanage, had tried to access anything. No, he decided, it would be foolish to display any real interest. Perhaps Granfell and Grayson were indeed up to something. The suspicion he had discarded only a short time before returned with a vengeance. "Well, good night. And thanks for the synthecaf. After the outdoors, it was very welcome. Beastly climate, isn't it."

"You can say that again, sir."

"Good night, then." Belfontaine walked out of the CommCenter before he realized that he had no idea what the name of the clerk was, and that he did not really care. But he would find out, and put the man in for a transfer to days. Perhaps that favor would keep him from talking, or defuse his interest in why the Station Chief had stopped in so suddenly.

A wave of weariness washed through him, followed by a mild nausea. He dropped the now tepid synthecaf cup into the closest disposal chute and made a face. There were too many variables, suddenly, after years of things being stable, and he did not like it. No, that was too mild a reaction. He hated this situation. He hated not knowing who his foes were, and he hated not being able to predict what would happen in the near future.

Belfontaine's small hands curled into fists, and he wished there were something nearby that he could hit. But the walls of the corridor were unforgiving, and he was not of a mind to injure himself out of sheer frustration. He needed to have a plan of his own. The problem was he had no clear idea where to begin.

His office was silent, and the stack of papers on the desk did not improve his mood. Why was the Regional Relay Station returning his messages unanswered? If the Federation was really going to pull out of Cottman, he should be receiving lots and lots of directives, shouldn't he? Unless they were somehow being rerouted to Grayson.

That, at least, was something he could check out. He pushed the papers aside, intent on finding some answers. He keyed into the comm in his desk and began a search. No, Grayson was not sending out separate requests, nor receiving replies, other than one two days before, when everything had stopped cold. And that one, when he accessed it, was perfectly correct, exactly what a Planetary Administrator should be asking from Regional HQ . . . unless it was in some code.

Belfontaine toyed with the idea for a moment, then rejected the possibility. Emmet Grayson was from a family that had been in Federation Service for generations, and he took his duties seriously. He was, as far as Lyle had ever known, a rather dull man who was honest to a fault. Worse, he actually believed that Cottman was fine, just as it was, and had done as much as he had been able to prevent Belfontaine from changing things. Really, the notion of him conspiring with Granfell or anyone else was laughable.

He keyed up the records he had caused to be transferred to his unit, looking now for any communication between Granfell and the Federation outpost in the Aldaran Domain. There were a few things, but they were the normal sort of communication. There was nothing alarming or even interesting in them.

This did not mean that Granfell had not met with Dom Damon while he was up in the Hellers, though. Miles was clever enough not to leave traces of any subversive activity.

Was it possible that nothing was going on? Could it be that Miles' plan really was a spur of the moment thing, conjured up opportunistically when he learned that Regis Hastur was dead. Was he being overly tortuous, or just plain paranoid?

Perhaps the best thing would be to let Granfell go ahead, bring a few troops down from the Hellers to attack the train, and see what happened. If it succeeded, fine. If it did not, then he could claim he knew nothing about it, that Granfell had acted on his own, without authorization, should it come to a Board of Inquiry.

Of course Granfell would try to implicate him, and with Belfontaine's past record, he might even be believed. It would be better if Granfell did not survive, wouldn't it? He was much too eager for Belfontaine's comfort. And there was Nailors to consider as well. He was Granfell's man, and would back him up.

A slow grin began to pull at the corners of his mouth. He could see a way out now. Vancof wanted orders, did he? Well, he would get them, and they would solve the entire problem. If you have an assassin, you might as well use him. And Nailors would never have any idea that he carried his own death warrant, and Granfell's as well.

Pleased with his own cunning, Belfontaine turned his mind to the other problem, that of Mikhail Hastur. He had never seen the man-could have passed him in the hall without recognition. He might be manipulable, and he might not. And wasn't there a son of Regis' somewhere?

Annoyance replaced his good mood abruptly. He had not gathered enough information during his years on Cottman, and now he had to work without it. True, Granfell might manage to eliminate most of the ruling class of Cottman, or at least those who were adults. But would that get him what he wanted?

He could not depend on that, could he? And if the members of the Comyn were away from Thendara, bearing the body of Regis Hastur north, then the castle should be easy pickings. And there were at least a hundred and fifty men in the HQ Barracks, eating their heads off and whoring with the local women. They were a match for any number of sword-carrying guards, even without high energy weapons.

What justification could he claim for attacking Comyn Castle? For several seconds he was thwarted, and then he realized that the solution was Hermes Aldaran. He was a wanted man, and, as far as Belfontaine knew, he was holed up in the castle. Therefore, he would be justified in storming the blasted place-if the Federation ever questioned his actions, they would never know that Hermes most likely would be riding north with the rest. Yes, that was the answer.

As soon as the funeral train was out of the city, he would order an assault on Comyn Castle. The unfilled warrant for Hermes Aldaran was all he really needed, wasn't it? And there would be no real opposition, just a few servants and a handful of Castle Guards. And once they occupied that great white pile on the hill, he would be in the perfect position to make any demands he wished. With any luck at all, it might be a bloodless coup.

Belfontaine leaned back in the too-large chair, feeling it hit his spine in all the wrong places, and sighed. Then he leaned forward and pressed a thumb lock on the lowest drawer of the desk. It slid open silently, and he took out a bottle of rare Fontainian brandy and a small glass. Slowly he poured himself a tipple. He raised the glass, toasting the air, and tried to convince himself that at last his ambitions were going to be realized.

13.

Herm felt a weight on his arm, and for a moment thought it was his Kate. Then he opened his eyes, saw a clouded dawn sky above his head, and found that the boy had rolled over in his sleep and pillowed his head against Herm's shoulder. There was something very trusting in this, and he was moved by an unexpected rush of tenderness. He barely knew Domenic, and now here they were, alone together, involved in a covert operation.

The events of the previous night flooded into his mind, filled with fear and regret, but also a profound sense of relief. He was glad to be away from Katherine for a time. Then, just as he began to enjoy the relief, guilt crept into his consciousness, destroying the mild pleasure of having escaped the situation for a while. He saw his choice as somewhat cowardly now, and was ashamed. Katherine was right. Everything had changed between them since they had come to Darkover. He had just been too stubborn and too self-involved to admit it before. It was a bitter pill to swallow so early in the day.

The tension which had thrummed along his nerves for weeks, was still there, but subtly altered. He had escaped one set of problems only to be saddled with another. Herm had not anticipated how difficult it was going to be, not just for Katherine and the children, but for himself. He loved Darkover deeply, but his homecoming had not been what he expected. He felt sad and angry at the same time, the very emotions he had tried his best to avoid most of his adult life.

And now he was uncertain of his decision, wracked with doubts that rarely troubled him. He had taken the easy way out of the conflict with his wife. Why? Ultimately it would only make things worse. Reluctantly Herm acknowledged to himself that he had put his world before his personal life-again! There was no other rational explanation for why he had kept Kate in the dark about the talents that gave the Comyn much of their authority. He was the cunning man, wasn't he? Surely, if he had really wished to, he could have found a way to tell her the truth, even with Federation spy eyes and ears all around him. He hated himself for leaving Katherine the way he had. He felt drained now, bewildered, and full of self-loathing. It was too many conflicting emotions to contain. He would have killed for a cup of synthecaf, if he could have gotten one.

Nico stirred, interrupting Herm's dark thoughts. He opened his eyes, and then rubbed them with a rather grubby hand. He had gray eyes, flecked with gold, the iris rimmed in black. His black hair went back from his brow in a peak, very like Lew Alton's, giving the boy something of the appearance of a hawk, with his prominent nose and small mouth. Not a handsome lad, but there was a lot of character in his face, and his eyes shone with intelligence.

"Uh, sorry." Nico shifted his head off Herm's shoulder. "Tell me, is having an adventure always this uncomfortable? There must be a million rocks under me."

It was cold, even under the blankets, and the rocks Herm had noticed when he slipped into sleep seemed to have indeed multiplied during the night. He sat up and looked around, the covers falling off his chest. "I don't know, since I have not had a great number of adventures. And thus far, this one is pretty tame, Tomas. But I agree about the rocks. Perhaps we were lying on a migration path of stones." It was a feeble jest, yet Herm was quite pleased that he had managed it.

To his surprise, this bit of levity provoked a look of alarm on the boy's face. It was gone in an instant, but for a moment he thought that Domenic had taken him seriously. It was a troubling notion for no reason he could immediately understand. He opened his mouth to ask about it, then silenced himself. Herm remembered himself at fifteen, how secretive and spiky he had been, and decided that Nico should be let alone for the present.

"What are we going to do now?"

"Now we are going to get some breakfast from one of the foodstalls. I don't believe our friend got very far, as drunk as he was, and if my guess is correct, he is suffering from a bad hangover and wishing he were dead. Later, I think we might make a few cautious inquiries among the Travelers-you spoke of a pretty girl. Maybe she can tell us something about him."

"What if she recognizes me?"

"A good question, and one I had not thought of. You might have a real talent for subterfuge, boy."

"Thank you, Uncle. But if I do, no one has ever noticed it before. Rory is the one . . . He is going to be furious when he finds out what I've done. And jealous." There was a certain quiet satisfaction in the words.

"No doubt. You are the 'good' one, aren't you, like my own older brother? And I was like Rory when I was your age, always into some trouble or other."

"Yesterday . . . it seems longer ago . . . Mother was saying that I must be abnormal because I never gave her a minute's worry. If she had foreseen what I was going to do, she would have bitten her tongue."

"Well, she didn't, and saved herself a pot of bother. Now, roll up the bedding and put it back on the horse, and we will fill our bellies. The Travelers seem to be late risers."

Among the footstalls there was a booth that offered a pail of heated water for the refreshment of wayfarers, and they afforded themselves of its services. As Herm splashed the warm liquid over his face, he started to feel better, and Nico removed most of the grime that he had somehow acquired during the night. Then they got bowls of porridge, thick stuff, rich with dried fruits, and slabs of warmed over flatbread. They ate in silence, until the food was consumed. It was a peaceful moment in what promised to be a tense day.

Herm you were right. That man, Vancof, only went up the road a little. Here he comes, and he seems to be in a very bad mood.

How do you know?

He is practically shouting his thoughts. I think he is afraid of something. He was frightened last night as well-of the other man, Granfell, but mostly of getting killed. He is cursing the day he ever came to Darkover, or joined Intelligence.

Good. Angry men make stupid mistakes.

They went to the horses and got them fed and watered. After a few minutes, the skinny driver came down the road, muttering to himself, and went to the wagon with the puppets painted on its sides. A female voice from within began to abuse him roundly.

"Is that the girl you mentioned?"

"I don't know, Uncle. It doesn't sound like her voice. And she didn't look like she could swear like that. She seemed rather nice."

The driver backed away from the wain, and a plump woman emerged. Her voice was lower now, so they could not overhear the words, but it was obvious that she was berating the man. After a minute another figure came out of the wagon, the slender redhead Nico had seen the previous day. She was knuckling sleep from her eyes, and looked very cross.

"Auntie, leave off!" Her voice carried across the field, as she tugged at the older woman's sleeve. Then, suddenly, she dropped her hand and looked around, scanning the booths and stalls, as if she was looking for something. The expression on her face seemed puzzled and a little frightened.

At her movement, Nico ducked behind his horse and looked alarmed. Herm watched and saw the girl shake her head, and turn back to the now sullen combatants. The driver was red-faced with fury, and the older woman seemed about to shake him by his slight shoulders.

She sensed me!

Were you probing her, Nico?

No, just sort of . . . hovering around. It is something Mother taught me. But she noticed it. She must have some laran, otherwise she wouldn't have. And if she sees me, she is going to wonder why I was standing guard yesterday. What's she doing here, and why isn't she in a Tower?

That's a very good question, Nico. Another is who is she? She does not have the appearance of a commoner, does she?

I don't know. I mean, she looks ordinary, like other people, to me, except for her red hair. And even though I know that red hair often goes along with laran, it i's not always so. My Aunt Rafaella has pretty red hair, and not a lick of laran-although her sister was in a Tower for a time. And my hair is dark, yet my gifts are strong. That girl certainly is pretty, and she has a really sharp tongue. He gave the mental equivalent of a sigh. I don't have much experience with anyone except the people in the castle and at Arilinn. I feel totally ignorant about a lot of things.

No, I suppose not. Very likely she is some nedestra child of the Comyn, but I agree that her presence among the Travelers is a little peculiar. When I left Darkover, there were only two or three groups of them, and they were more an amusing source of light entertainment than anything else. Still, I suppose that some randy sprig of the Domains might have fathered her and given her that fiery head of hair and a bit of laran, and never known he had done it.

You mean her mother was likely a Traveler?