Exile's Song (4 page)

“You won’t get one here,” he stated with the finality of the very young.

Margaret felt foolish and a little angry. “No, of course not.”

The second boy glared at the first. “I could go for a horse car, but it is easier to walk. The rest house is right over there.” He pointed to the edge of the square. There was an ugly little cluster of buildings perhaps two hundred feet away. They were typical Terran architecture—fortresslike and forbidding.

“We are not staying at the rest house,” she said slowly, forming her mouth into patterns that seemed to be right on the tip of her tongue, but were hard to get out. Once, she knew, she had probably been fluent, or as fluent as a five-year-old could be, but since neither the Old Man nor Dio ever used anything except Terran Standard on Thetis, she had nearly forgotten what she knew. Worse, she realized, when she listened to the language tapes, her mind seemed to resist grasping the words, and she had to struggle as she had never done before.

“Do you know the way to Music Street?” There was something wrong with her phrasing, she was certain, but the boy appeared to get her meaning. His eyes widened slightly. She could almost hear him thinking
Why are these people going there?
Damn her active imagination anyhow.

“Yes,
domna.
” The answer was polite, but she could see that the lad was very curious.

“Is it far? My companion is very tired. We have traveled a long way.” Wasn’t that a masterpiece of understatement.

“Not too far, if you don’t mind walkin’. Pretty far, for Terrans. What would you be wanting in Music Street?”

A gust of wind crept under the nape of her neck, caught the loose strands of her hair, and the last of the pins beside her ears slithered out of it. Silky strands of red blew across her face in the chill breeze, blurring her vision. Margaret dropped the bags and grabbed for her escaped hair as the boys watched her with amusement. With a few small curses which she hoped they didn’t understand, Margaret grabbed at the flying strands and yanked them back with chilly fingers. She coiled them into a knot, and one of the lads gathered the fallen pins and handed them to her. One of the few things her stepmother
had
told about their home planet was that unbound hair was the mark of a common streetwalker, an invitation to trouble. Odd, she thought, that Dio would tell her that. “We are staying in Music Street with Master Everard. Do you know the way there?”

“We can take you.” The second boy spoke. He was courteous enough, but Margaret felt uneasy. Their bags held few clothes, but all their disks and recording equipment. On a low technology world like this, they were wealth beyond price. Not to mention the hell there would be to pay if they were stolen. She and Ivor were replaceable; their equipment would be a form-filled nightmare to recover. The thought made her rage as she often did at Terran arrogance and paternalism.

Margaret knew she was too tired to think straight, and finally realized that her anxiety must be due to sleep deprivation. It certainly wasn’t hard to understand. She had not really slept for days.

The second boy was dark and had an honest sort of face, but after all these months with nonhumans, she no longer trusted her own assessment of faces. And a confidence man by definition had an honest face. It was his stock in trade. It was growing colder by the minute, and she couldn’t stand there being indecisive. Ivor couldn’t bear it even if she could.

“Lead on, MacDuff,” she said with more vigor than she felt. She picked up the two bags herself, still wary in case these seemingly nice boys were really thieves.

“Naw,” the dark-haired one answered. “I don’t know any Macduffs. ’Tis MacDoevid. You know any Macduffs, Geremy?”

“Not me,” Geremy said, and made a gesture toward her luggage. “You want some help with those?”

“MacDoevid, eh?” Margaret ignored the offer out of sheer pigheadedness. “Professor, is he a relative of yours?” The old man forced a feeble smile. He was having trouble following the exchange of words between Margaret and the boys, and it showed in his face.

Ivor didn’t answer immediately, and then he seemed to understand her question. It took time for the sounds to make sense in his mind, she knew. “Perhaps. The sons of David have always been a widespread tribe,” he said with a real grin, as if he found the whole thing enormously amusing.

The boy MacDoevid tilted his head to one side to stare at the old man. “What did he say?” There was a glint of interest in his eyes, curiosity and intelligence combined.

Margaret sighed. Ivor always had a terrible time at first in learning local dialects. One of the many ways in which Margaret was invaluable to him was her ability to pick up new languages quickly. She knew that what she had learned was basic and simplistic. The language disks had contained typical phrases that arrogant Terran tourists considered important to know: “Where is the Sky-port? How much does that cost?” and other equally inane but universal matters. She had nevertheless been able to obtain a rudimentary knowledge of the common Darkovan tongue. Ivor had obtained a disk of complex musical terms, but she had not had a chance to listen to it, because of the haste of their departure. Besides, musical terms would be of little use with these lads.

Margaret drew a long breath, disciplining herself to go slowly, even though the chill of the sunset wind made her want to hurry. “Permit me to make introductions,” she said, choosing the words with care. “Professor Davidson, meet young MacDoevid. You see, your names are akin.” She emphasized the vowel sounds, so the youngster could hear them, and was rewarded by a widening of eyes and a nod that told her he had understood. Clearly a bright lad.

“Huh, wait till I tell my father ’bout that,” responded the boy. “But what is ‘Professor’?”

Margaret realized that for want of enough vocabulary she had used the Terran title. From the little she had learned thus far, she had not found any mention of anything like a college or university on Darkover, and realized that there was no immediate equivalent to use. Her weary brain fumbled with words for a moment, before she realized the answer was much simpler than she had thought. “He is a—a teacher. Of music.” She was rather pleased with herself. It both answered the question and explained why they were going to Music Street.

Ivor gave her a tired and rather forlorn look. He never managed to master pidgin anything. For weeks he would mumble like an illiterate, expecting Margaret to translate everything. Then one morning he’d wake up speaking the language almost like a native, and chatter to make up for lost time.
But he won’t be here long enough for that.

Margaret scolded herself immediately. Where did that thought come from, anyway? She did not believe in premonitions; such beliefs were illogical and unscholarly. She was only tired and worried about her companion. And she was cold and hungry, too, which just made her dark thoughts worse. They were going to be on Darkover for a year or more, and Ivor would be fine, as soon as she got him to Music Street. If only she could shake the sense of dread she had that had been gnawing at her for weeks. If she had just been able to get in touch with Dio, she was sure she wouldn’t be so apprehensive. Why hadn’t her stepmother answered any of her costly telefaxes? She had always responded before. What if something was wrong with her—or the Old Man?
Stop borrowing trouble,
she told herself furiously.

They had left the wall around the spaceport buildings behind them, and now passed a gray stone structure that made her skin crawl when she looked at it. The windows were screened from the street, and it was squat and silent and hideous. “What is that? A jail?” As she spoke, she knew it was not. There was something utterly familiar and vile about the place.

“Na, that’s the place where they put extra children. The Terrans are very strange. They put children there and leave them.” Geremy answered her question, his young voice dripping with condemnation.

“He means,
domna,
that it is the orphanage.” That was the MacDoevid boy, his voice a little deeper than Geremy’s in the growing darkness.

Now she could see a lighted sign which read
The John Reade Orphanage for the Children of Spacemen.
Of course! She had lived behind those screened windows once, when she was small and alone and helpless. But her father was not a spaceman. He was an Imperial Senator. He had never been a spaceman either, as far as she knew, so it didn’t make any sense. Why couldn’t she remember? Her stomach tightened, and she had to swallow several times. Despite the chill of the air, she felt sweat break out on her forehead and under her arms. Why, oh why, had the Old Man and Dio been so secretive?

Stop this! There must have been reasons, probably good reasons, why they never told me anything about this world. And they never thought I would return to Darkover, did they? They don’t even know I’m here now, unless they got my last communication. They probably think I am happily ensconced at University, or off somewhere doing music research. And they probably have no idea that I need them right now. The Old Man is busy with the Senate, and Dio is . . . no, I must be imagining something. Dio is fine, just fine.
Despite her logical insistence that her stepmother was all right, Margaret had a nasty feeling that something was very wrong, at that very moment, and she did not like it at all.

“You idiot,” MacDoevid said, shoving his companion on the shoulder. “Extra children, indeed! Stop showin’ off or I’ll tell Auntie how rude ye’ were, and when she finishes skelpin’ ye’, she willna let ye’ meet any more ships.”

“Do you boys come here every day?” Margaret asked, too exhausted and disoriented to try to make any sense of this byplay.

“Na,
domna,
only when there’s a passenger ship. Lots o’ ships land here, but most of ’em aren’t people ships.” It took a moment for her tired brain to realize he meant cargo ships and transfer ships, which were more common and more frequent visitors to Darkover than the passenger ships. Darkover was well situated as a transfer point, but most people never left the spaceport. “We get money for luggin’ stuff,” he hinted broadly, gesturing at the bags she clung to stubbornly. “We have to be people the Officer knows. He tells us when one is coming, because he knows us, and knows we is trusty. Strange ones might be thieves,” he added, as if he knew her reluctance to surrender her load was fear of just that.

She understood the boy’s hints perfectly well, and wished she felt more comfortable about trusting them. Margaret had some local money in her belt pouch. She had cleaned out the University branch of Rothschild and Tanaka, Moneychangers, of their entire stock of Cottman currency. It was the equivalent of about twelve standard credits. What that meant in the local economy was anyone’s guess. She tried to flog her tired brain into useful channels. What should she give them for being guides, always assuming they were not going to lead them into a dark alley and rob them. She dismissed that thought as unkind. Geremy would certainly not be bashful about telling her if she was stingy, she decided. He seemed irrepressible, and she envied his confidence.

Ahead, she saw another wall, a lower one this time. It seemed to separate the loathsome orphanage from the rest of the city. They passed beneath an arch where a black-leathered guard lounged comfortably. He waved to the boys as if they were a familiar sight, and gave Margaret and the professor no more than an indifferent glance. She guessed he saw all the few tourists there were. Once beyond the arch, they were surrounded by stone houses and cobblestoned streets that seemed to run together at crazy angles. No wonder there were no wheeled vehicles! These streets were too narrow for any Terran car.

The cold was intense now and seemed to pierce her bones, even through the cloak. The somewhat crabby agent at the University travel service had grudgingly told her it was spring on Cottman IV, which had conveyed to her mind something warm and balmy, not this icy reality. She envied the boys their comfortable wool tunics.
When I lived here, I must have worn that sort of wool, and furs, too. I think I had a fur tunic when I was very small—funny I never remembered it before now. It was rust-colored, the color of my mother’s hair.

Margaret shook herself. How strange to think that her tunic was the color of her mother’s hair. The memory was fugitive, faint, and maddening, and she shivered. Then a small grin curled her lips for a second. She wished she had a fur tunic now!

Margaret tried to dispel the unease the memory of that tunic brought her. Instead, she remembered something Dio had said years before. “The Terrans can dash between the stars, but they have yet to invent any synthetic which is as comfortable as wool or silk. I do wish they would stop trying!” That made her feel better, even as she cursed the clinging material of her Scholar’s uniform. It was, in theory, comfortable in any climate or weather. Like many theories, it worked better in the lab than in the field, and was typical of the Terran passion for technology, and their disdain for nature. All-weather was a concept, like “one size fits all,” probably made up by some idiot who never left the weather-conditioned environment of a Terran compound. Despite her fatigue, Margaret started to feel a little better. There was something so satisfying about sneering mentally at Terrans and their fondness for the unnatural.

“How would you like to help me out tomorrow, Master MacDoevid? It would be after school.”

Both lads looked at her, and she realized that they had the same last name. It was not the dark one who answered, but the fairer and taller boy. He had almost red hair in the flickering torchlight, and gave her a shy grin. “My father is Master MacDoevid,
domna,
I’m just Geremy. I dunna go to school,
domna,
but I’d be honored to be of service.” He eyed her in the light that spilled from a nearby wineshop. She glanced up at the sign outside the place, and saw something like a tree wearing a crown. Until that moment the actual meaning of “preliterate,” which was how the meager information she had described Darkovan culture, had not sunk in. It was one thing to know something intellectually, and quite another to meet the actuality.