Belfontaine's few spies had assured him that the funeral train had left that morning with everyone from the castle including the Guardsmen, accompanying it. So why was he increasingly anxious? Could he trust his agents? What if someone had anticipated his attack, and made it appear that the castle was a ripe plum just waiting to be plucked? No, there was no one that clever, was there?

Ahead, he saw the gleaming white walls of Comyn Castle and his worries began to slip away. How he hated the building, which represented his failure to bring Cottman to heel for the Federation! It was payback time, and he felt exultation swell in his chest.

Then his previous anxiety returned. He almost felt as if the building were watching him, observing his march somehow. It was an eerie sensation, and Belfontaine realized his nerves were not as steady as he had previously thought. He almost wished that it were not empty, that he would have the opportunity to slaughter its obstinate, arrogant inhabitants. What victory was there in seizing an empty palace? A sour taste filled his mouth, and he knew that he would never have dared to attack Comyn Castle unless it was unguarded. This honest insight rattled him badly, and he gritted his teeth. He had to get a grip on himself!

He glanced at the readouts on his visor, little specks of light that encoded information, showing him the position of his men. It calmed him to see that, and the momentary self-awareness of fear faded away. He liked the smell of the helm, and the sense of command it gave him. With it, he could direct his men instantly, and also have a view of any opposition. Not that he expected any. The Castle Guards had gone with the funeral train, and he had arranged for trouble in the Horse Market to draw the City Guards to the other side of Thendara. So why did this litany of certainty fail to reassure him?

It was too quiet-that was what was getting on his nerves! There should be people in the streets, even if it was a day of mourning. He swallowed the foul taste in his mouth.

It was actually better this way, Belfontaine told himself almost desperately now. Dead civilians tended to arouse the interest of Boards of Inquiry, and if he could manage a bloodless coup, it would be to his advantage. He wished he knew more about the actual layout of the Castle. He had tried to find out, during the years, and he knew that by repute it was a regular warren of corridors and rooms, large enough to hide a thousand men. Except that even if one combined all the City and Castle Guards, they did not number that many.

There was something uncanny about the white building ahead of him. Was that someone on the roof? No, just a shadow. But he looked at the surrounding buildings, at the rooflines of the nearest ones, trying to see if there were any watchers there. Supposedly, his combat helm should have indicated the presence of anyone, the heat of their bodies making a signal, but the local stone seemed to block that function. Typical-whenever you really needed them, machines let you down. It was some kind of law, wasn't it?

Quelling his rising anxiety, Lyle Belfontaine advanced, his boots and those of his company making a steady beat against the cobblestones of the avenue. It was a regular, rhythmic sound, and it began to steady his nerves. He knew that men going into combat were often nervous, and decided that he must be experiencing that. It was nothing to be concerned over.

Now he stood at the bottom of two flights of wide stairs, leading up to the main doors of Comyn Castle. For a moment he stood and gazed at the great carved doors, allowing himself the pleasure of anticipating their destruction. He barked a command into his helm, and two squads started to move up the stairs. It was all going just as he had planned, and he let himself grin behind his visor.

He was admiring their efficient progress, the splendid way they moved together as the squads advanced up the first flight of stairs. Then the men seemed to hesitate, and he saw one man bat his helm with a gauntleted hand, as if trying to get the mechanism to function correctly.

Before he could wonder what was happening, he felt an itch begin to crawl across his scalp beneath the helmet. It seemed to have a lot of legs-some sort of insect. How could the damn thing have gotten under his helm? And he could not get at it without taking the accursed thing off! He shook his head to one side, trying to dislodge whatever it was, and felt the itching increase. It seemed like several large crawly things were on his scalp, and his skin began to roughen in the warmth of the combat suit. Visions of centipedes began to rise in his mind, the sort that were common on Lein III. Perhaps the suits had become infested with some local insect, and the heat of his body had roused them. He held back a shudder and tried to concentrate on the readouts again.

Something was wrong! Where a minute before he could place every one of the eighteen soldiers on the steps without actually looking at anything except the dots of colored light in his display, now eight of them were gone! Simply vanished! Stupid machinery! The things were supposed to be foolproof, but of course they would go off-line just when they were most needed. Damn the Federation for giving him old equipment, years out of date! He shook the helm with both hands-there must be a loose connection. His attempt to fix things did not improve matters at all.

A thin, wailing sound came over the comlink, nearly deafening Belfontaine as the scream pierced his eardrums for several seconds before bubbling into silence. Then all the displays in his helm burst into life, leaving dazzling spots dancing before his aching eyes. There were shouts all around him, penetrating the thick insulation of the helm. A sputter of light surged again, and then the helm went dead. The nasty stink of burning insulation rose in his nose, and he tried to pull the thing off without disengaging the toggles that held it to his combat suit. Smoke began to cloud the visor as he scrabbled to release the clasps that held the helm in place.

After what felt like an eternity, but was actually only a few seconds, Belfontaine managed to get his gloved fingers around the toggles and undo them. He pulled his helmet off and gasped for air. The cold wind chilled his skin, but it felt wonderful for a moment. His eyes teared with the combination of smoke and wind, and he blinked to clear them.

A scene of chaos met his burning eyes. He stared in astonishment as the eighteen men who had reached the landing between the two flights of stairs screamed and tore at their helms and protective garments. He watched expensive helmets being smashed against stones, and saw one man ram his fingers into his own eyes. Several others turned and started to run down the stairs toward him.

"Stop!" His command was borne away on the wind, and it had no effect. A trooper dashed past him, discarding his weapons as he ran, screaming lustily. The eyes of the man seemed glazed and vacant, and a line of spittle drooled from the gaping mouth. Belfontaine reached out to restrain him, but the man just pushed him away, knocking him down so hard that all the air left his lungs.

The combat suit protected him, but Belfontaine could feel the impact of the fall. Dazed, he watched the troopers still on the landing dance around, pulling off their suits, screaming and vomiting. Then he turned and looked behind him, to find that the rest of his small force had gone mad as well.

He tottered to his feet, desperately trying to regain his own control. The suit suddenly felt too hot, and remembering how his helm had shorted out, he looked down to see if there were any telltale wisps of smoke. It became hotter and hotter, until it was intolerable, although he could see nothing wrong. Get out of the suit!

Belfontaine pulled at the closures, and felt the suit slip down his body, puddling around his knees and leaving him in his thermal undersuit. The brisk wind cooled his overheated body quickly, and he tried to understand what was happening.

You always were worthless, Lyle. You were a failure from the day you were born! He heard the words and knew the voice, even as his mind rejected them. Then he saw the speaker standing in front of him, his tall and powerful father, sneering at him and making him feel smaller than he was. The vision was transparent at first, but then it solidified and began to move closer. Reflexively, he lifted his arm to deflect the blow he anticipated, now totally unaware of the actions of his troopers around him.

He cowered before the image of his father, trying to make his voice work, to say anything that would keep him safe. But his throat was closed with terror, and he felt his bowels loosen. The smell wafted upward, and Belfontaine trembled with shame.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the vision of his father vanished, and he could see that there were men sitting on the landing, sobbing or screaming. He turned to look at the rest of his troopers, and saw that most of them were in retreat. And worse, riding toward them, was a company of City Guards. Were they insane, to ride against energy weapons? Then he saw that none of his soldiers were even reaching for their blasters-they were too busy jumping around and trying to get out of their suits. This damn planet was driving them crazy!

Before he could quite grasp this new development, he heard another sound, of stone sliding over stone, and turned toward the noise. An opening had appeared in the wall of the castle, to one side of the great doors, and the Castle Guards he had been assured were gone poured out.

Belfontaine reached to his side, where a blaster should have been, and felt his fingers brush against the weave of his thermal undergarment. He leaned down to the discarded combat suit which lay around his ankles, trying to find the weapon.

Hello, little man.

The words boomed in his mind, echoing like cannons, familiar and not at the same time. It was too much, and for the first time in his life, Lyle Belfontaine fainted.

When consciousness returned, Belfontaine found himself lying on a long couch, his battle gear gone. There was a pleasant fire in a huge maw of stone, and the smell of Cottman balsam drifted out from it. He lay in his fouled thermals, dazed and bewildered.

There was a faint rustle of fabric, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound. A dark-haired woman in a jewel-red garment came into view. It fell in soft folds around her slender form as she walked toward him, a soft veil fluttering from the top of her head. "Feeling better?"

He stared at her, for a moment incapable of comprehending the question. Belfontaine's command of the local language had never been very good, and in his present muddled condition, it abandoned him entirely for a few seconds. Then he understood and nodded, sitting up so quickly that his head swam. She was small, no taller than he was, and young enough to be his daughter, but clad only in his soiled thermals, he felt helpless and vulnerable. And disgusting-he stank of sweat, fear, and worse.

The sound of boots on stone came in from behind the couch, and Belfontaine turned around to see who it was. Lew Alton, grinning like a fiend, appeared. If he had not lost his weapons, he would have blasted the hateful man right then.

"You have always wanted to see the inside of Comyn Castle, haven't you, Lyle, and now you have achieved your ambition," Alton said gravely. "Would you care for a glass of wine?"

For a moment this barefaced effrontery robbed Belfontaine of the power of speech. Then he snarled, "What are you doing here? I thought you left with . . . and what did you do to me and my men?"

"I did not do anything to you, little man. All your troubles you have brought on yourself. Now, about the wine. I am going to have some, and I suggest you do the same." Lew walked to a small table and poured two glasses. Then he looked at the silent woman. "Would you like some, too, Val?"

"Yes, I believe I would," she answered. Alton poured another, then picked one up and handed it to her. He placed the remaining glasses on a small tray and moved toward Belfontaine.

Little man. That was what he had heard just before he . . . no, he did not want to think about that. Belfontaine was sure he had heard Lew's voice, but not in the air. There was a different resonance. He must have shouted over some sort of device, some primitive thing, an ancient loudspeaker probably. He had only thought he heard the words in his mind. The whole thing must have been an illusion due to his agitated state.

The smugness of the man was infuriating. There had to be a way to penetrate Lew Alton's arrogant triumph. But he felt so weak, confused and mortified that it was hard to muster up enough strength to focus his mind. It was as if all his emotions except fear, had faded into shadows. Yes, he was most definitely afraid, but he was damned if he was going to let it show.

He took the offered glass, forcing his sluggish mind to work. There had to be a reasonable explanation for all this. There was no way a bunch of backwater primitives could have defeated trained troops so easily. He sipped a little of the wine and racked his brain.

The combat suits had been sabotaged in some manner-that must be it! Some of the native personnel must have done it, though he could not imagine how. And now he was a prisoner. It had never occurred to him that he might fail, and he remembered how his father had appeared and called him worthless. It was all impossible! The silence in the room weighed on him.

"I thought you were with the funeral train," he muttered, hating the whine in his own voice, and still trying to find some sense in the whole mess. The train! How much time had passed? He could not tell, and there was no clock that he could see. The train had left at daybreak, and he had waited for several hours before he began his assault. He shuddered at his realization of the failure of it. By now the ambush should have taken place, and no one but he knew that most of the members of the Comyn Council were likely dead. The troops from the Hellers would not be wearing Federation combat suits, so they would be immune to this unexpected treachery. Yes, he could definitely salvage something.

Belfontaine bit his lower hp. He longed to announce what he knew, to wipe the smug expression off Alton's scarred and wrinkled face, to tell him that his daughter was dead! But he must not waste his advantage so cheaply. Let him think he had the upper hand for a time. The wine was rather good, and it seemed to be clearing his mind slowly.

"I am sure you did, but since I expected you to come calling, I decided to be a good host and await you."

"You . . . expected . . . me?" The wine turned to vinegar in his mouth.

"Of course. You convinced yourself that Comyn Castle would be an easy target. You have always underestimated us, Lyle. It is your fatal flaw."

"Fatal? What are you going to do to me?"

"Why, you will be my guest for a time." Lew Alton's face was solemn, but there was a light in the Comyn lord's eyes that made Belfontaine uneasy. "And later, I am going to turn you over to the Federation-always assuming they come back for you-and let them deal with you. Of course, when my son-in-law returns, he may have some other ideas-nothing too terribly barbaric, I assure you."

That was too much! He could not stand it a second longer. "You will have to wait a long time, then, because he is not coming back! He's dead, and so is everyone else in that party!"

Alton appeared unmoved, not the least bit afraid. "Now, now, Lyle. It would have been much wiser not to have admitted knowledge of that. Much wiser."

Belfontaine felt the blood drain from his face. His ears rang, and he felt nauseous. With a great effort he swallowed the saliva that filled his mouth and screamed, "You stupid bastard-your daughter is dead!"

To his fury and amazement, Lew Alton did not react except to appear mildly amused. "No, little man, she most definitely is not!"

25.

The carriage rattled along, and Domenic shifted back and forth on his bench. He was riding with his back to the driver, and the forward movement of the vehicle threatened to unseat him. Across from him, Herm and Katherine were silent, each lost in their own thoughts. It did not take laran to be able to tell they had much to talk about, and Domenic wished he had gone in the carriage with Illona and his grandfather Gabriel, so they could have the privacy they clearly needed.

"Please, it's clear you have much to discuss," he finally told them, unable to endure their tense silence any longer. "If you can pretend I'm not here, I'll try my best not to listen." Then he turned and looked through the window, watching the thighs of the Guardsman who was riding beside the vehicle.

Herm gave a sort of grunt, a sound Domenic was now very familiar with. "I wish it were that easy, nephew."

Katherine turned and studied her husband. "It is that easy, except that you don't want to talk to me-you just want to charm me into forgetting the past few days. Domenic is not the problem, Herm. You are."

"What has gotten into you, Kate? I said I was sorry!" I go away for a few days and when I see her again, she seems like a different person-one I don't know at all.

"Sorry is not enough, and you know it!" She paused, seeming to gather her resolve and perhaps her nerve, and then went on. "Why are you such a runaway?"

"What?" Herm turned a deep shade of red, as if her words had hit some mark that shamed him.

"Well, aren't you? Don't you try to sidestep getting close to anyone, even me? I don't know why I didn't realize it before. No, that's not true. I did know it, and it was one of the reasons I married you-the more fool I."

"You are going to have to explain that, Katherine, because I am completely lost."

"I know it sounds ironic, but it seems that I never understood myself until I came to Darkover-why I am uncomfortable with most people. I married you, Hermes-Gabriel Aldaran, partly because I was so comfortable with you-and now that I'm here I've realized that the reason that I was more at ease with you than with other people is that you are remote! Oh, you are sweet and loving and utterly devoted, but there is a part of you that is always held back. That part made me feel unthreatened, but now things are so different! If we are going to mend this marriage, you have to change!"

Domenic wished he could stop his ears-he was trying not to listen-but he was fascinated at the same time. Was this the sort of thing his parents said to each other when they were alone? It must be, since he knew both Mikhail and Marguerida were very strong and stubborn people, and they could not have managed their years of marriage without some sort of argument. It gave him a new and not entirely pleasant insight into the relationship between the two most important people in his life.

"Remote?" Herm sounded peevish, and almost childish now.

"Yes, and withholding, too! Or do you believe that this 'hale fellow well met' you pretend to be is the real Hermes?"

The man squirmed and knitted his fingers together. Then he swallowed hard and replied, "I avoid introspection whenever possible."

"Then you had better stop avoiding it, or else I am going to . . . well, I'm not sure. Perhaps I will join the Painters Guild and leave you. Or let your brother support me for the rest of my years. Even though you have exiled me to this strange world, I am not without options!"

"You are asking me to change who I am. I don't know if that is realistic. I don't know if I can."

"I want you to try. I will not be shut out again, nor abandoned, Herm. You should get that through your thick Aldaran head right now!"

"It isn't enough that I love you?"

"Not nearly, cario." The term of endearment did not take the sting out of her demand, and Domenic held back a smile, lowering his head a little so his mouth was concealed. He realized he was learning something important about being an adult, although he could not quite understand it yet.

"What do you want of me, Kate?" He seemed humble now, sincere and a bit afraid.

"I want you to grow up! No more games and schemes, and no more secrets, at least not from me!"

Herm looked downcast for a minute, and Nico tensed, waiting for his response. "I don't know who I am without my plots and schemes, Katherine."

"Then it is about time you started finding out."

The man gave a great sigh. "Do you know how much I hate it when you are right?"

"Yes." Kate reached over and put her hand on his interlocked fingers. "If I did not love you so much, I would not be bothering, you know."

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" He bowed his head.

Katherine leaned over and kissed his shiny pate. "You were born under some lucky star, I suppose," she murmured.

Domenic yawned, not from tiredness, but to release the tension in his jaw. It was amazing-they had both been very angry at each other just a few minutes before, and now it was over, for the moment. He suspected that the matter was not completely settled, that Kate would have to chide her husband again and again. But peace had been restored, and he felt he had learned a lesson. He wished he could ask his mother about it, but that would mean revealing what had passed between his uncle and Katherine, and he would not do that. After chewing over it mentally for several seconds, Domenic let it go and he turned his attention outward. He scanned the minds of the Guardsmen riding beside the carriage, and then reached for those more distant ones he knew waited beyond.

At the head of the slow-moving train Mikhail and Marguerida rode side by side. They were both tense and alert, and around them, the mood of the Guards was grim. The sound of hooves, the jingle of bridles, and the occasional snort of mount or bray of mule were the only noises which punctuated an increasingly oppressive silence. Marguerida swallowed in a dry throat, the taste of one of MacHaworth's excellent fowl pies lingering in her mouth, and hummed a scale. Mikhail glanced at her when he heard the tones, smiling just a little.

The midday meal had been chaotic, noisy and almost fevered, as if everyone realized that it might be their last, and was determined to make the most of it. She was relieved to have Domenic back, and was glad she had persuaded him to ride in one of the carriages instead of on horseback. It was not much protection, but at least he would be out of sight during the actual fighting. She hoped she was right. It was easier to worry about her son than to think about what awaited them up the road.

Rafaella had been able to give them a clear idea of exactly where the ambush would most likely come. She and the rest of her Renunciates had been doing a good deal of quiet spying since the previous evening, and at least they had a fair idea of the number and location of the enemy. What they did not know, and what worried Marguerida and Mikhail most, was what sort of weaponry they would be facing. Rafi said that the men were dressed in Darkovan clothing, and seemed to have cudgels and short swords. But Marguerida was unable to completely convince herself that the Federation forces would not try to use their superior weaponry against the funeral train.

She took a deep breath and drew her mind into a less stressful channel. Marguerida knew she had to conserve her energies for the attack, that she would need all her wits about her, and if she started imagining blaster bolts, she would be exhausted by the time they reached their foes. Instead, she turned her thoughts to Illona Rider, who might or might not be a child of Dyan Ardais.

It was clear from the way Dyan had behaved that he was reluctant to acknowledge the girl. Marguerida had never completely understood him, after all it was no shame to father nedestro children, and all Darkovan children were so very precious! He should have rejoiced to know that another child of his lived! Something would have to be done about Illona, whether or not Dyan acknowledged her. She sighed. Fostering was the obvious answer, but she was not sure she wanted to take on another adolescent herself. Alanna was enough trouble already, and she had the suspicion that her difficult charge would not be pleased to have a rival for the affections of those around her. More, Marguerida was fairly certain that Nico would be caught between the two girls.

She remembered what people had said to her so long ago: "An untrained telepath is a danger to herself and everyone around her."

The girl needed training, too. And she did not doubt that Domenic was correct in his guess that Illona had the Alton Gift. Marguerida had felt the girl's nascent laran, and it was enough like her own to make her believe her son. But she did not think that Arilinn would be a very friendly place for a Traveler child, and she suspected that after a few rebuffs from the other students there, Illona would simply run away. No, she must either foster the girl herself or send her someplace like Tramontana. And fretting about it now was not doing her any good at all.

Against her better judgement, Marguerida turned her mind back to the present. Had they thought though all the possibilities? Could they protect enough of their own people with the combined energies of her matrix and Mikhail's to halt the attack? They had tried to test the limits of their powers, and knew that it could stop an arrow easily. It had been a nerve-racking experience for them, and even more so for the hapless Guardsman who was asked to aim his bow toward them. But whether it would be able to stop a blaster was another matter entirely. It was really a shame that the Command Voice was such a limited resource, that it did not reach beyond a hundred feet with any reliability. They had decided not to risk that, since it would affect friend and foe alike, leaving those outside its influence free to do as they wished.

Marguerida shifted in the saddle, turned, and looked behind her. She found Francisco Ridenow riding a few lengths back, and remembered that Kate had told her to keep an eye on him. Then she turned ahead again, and strained her distance sense to its utmost. She had done this several times already, but this time she was rewarded with the faint glimmer of mental energies about a mile beyond. It was still too far for her to distinguish individual minds, or to discover anything really useful from them.

You are doing fine, caria.

Thank you for the reassurance. I feel lake I am going to explode at any moment.

Well, you do resemble a kettle about to come to the boil-but a fine kettle, indeed.

I never thought that being likened to a pot would seem so . . . loving!

They rode in companionable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.