Conversation began casually—news from Hanover, the weather, increasing problems with Deep-rovers, the crops, details of operating a great household—in which both Donol, a probationary member, and Lia, through some default, were encouraged to take part as if the Drectorhood had not changed hands. At Morven's request, Lia arose and, having
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L. NEIL SMITH 231
poured, passed the fragile cups and saucers round, afterward sharing with the others a tray of crustless sandwiches and crumbly tidbits from the ovens. As Lia stood, tray in hand, the conversation took an ominous turn.
"Donol, my daughter this morning expressed her regret that your brother Robret, whom she regards as rather silly, continues his compulsion to obstruct her father's reforms upon this planet." Morven turned to Alysabeth. "Have I stated your view correctly, my dear?"
Had anyone thought to look up, he might have observed the rigid posture in which Lia held herself, the way her freckles stood against a paler countenance than had been the case a moment before. Something of significance was about to take place in the small room. She was afraid to predict, even to herself, what it might be.
In the esteem of father and daughter, she knew, Robret represented no more than an inferior imitation of his sire. They were infuriated more at the presumption represented by his continuing resistance, than at any of his manifold transgressions. The Black Usurper remained confident that Robret might be overcome, if not by more numerous and superior arms, then in good time, at the proper opportunity, by simple cunning, like his father.
Alysabeth seemed to blush and not quite stammer embarrassed aJB&rmation. The intonation of command had not been employed. As a consequence, her response was spontaneous. These were her feelings, however childish the terms in which they had been rendered. They included, as he had calculated they would, a degree of awkwardness at having been asked this question in the presence of the son and daughter-in-law-by-betrothal of her own dead husband, whom she had helped betray. Enjoying the returning muscle and sensation which permitted a broad, expressive gesture, Morven spread his arms and gave forth with a hearty laugh, inviting all within hearing to share his viewpoint.
"You see, Donol my boy, how it is with us. We have grave problems upon Skye and enormous responsibilities to the Ceo Leupould. Powerful individuals, factionalists without our interests foremost in their hearts, are watching, judging how we prosper, waiting for us to make mistakes by which they might derive some benefit." Morven astonished the
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middle Islay brother—and terrified Lia—by winking at him. "Always it is politics,'* the man complained jovially, as one cosmopolitan to another. "As a consequence, Donol, in an effort to lighten our burden, transfer our energies and attentions where they are sorely needed, I have decided to promise you not just the amnesty you have earned and which is due you, but a full oflScial pardon, in exchange for a demonstrated willingness upon your part to share some of those responsibilities and help us solve our problems."
Donol shut his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out slowly. Lia felt her body tense again. She would never have expected to find herself hanging upon the reply of this particular individual. Silence filled the room. "You ask," his next words were as deliberate as he could make them, "my cooperation in quelling the rebellion my brother leads."
Morven nodded. "We shall not mince words. Believe me, your reward will be commensurate. To name one example, my lovely daughter already has her eye upon you. You did not know, boy? It would not be a bad thing, politically or otherwise, if, at some future time, our families reunited in some manner other than a protracted struggle to the death." If Morven awaited some word or gesture from Donol, he did not receive it. "You wish firmer assurances from me, before committing yourself? I can scarcely blame you. I should want them myself, in your place. Or perhaps you desire a more timely and tangible gesture of good faith between us, a down payment, as it were. A token of promise. Very well, permit me to be as open with you as I would."
Straightening in his chair, he cleared his throat and proceeded to tell Donol the substance of his message from Zerushaa of Aahnaash.
"In due course," Morven concluded, "with suitable precautions against freezing to death (or whatever happens), toasting us, or being taken by Henry Martyn and his peg-tentacled crew, our friend Zerushaa purposes to visit us in person—we cannot say 'in the flesh'—here upon Skye."
Donol sat back in dumb astonishment, not so much at the message—it was a wide, wondrous universe in which many bizarre things had proven possible—as the fact that Morven had seen fit to tell him of it. Had he wormed his way this far
L. NEIL SMITH 233
into the man's confidence, or, as seemed more probable, was this some elaborate test? Donol realized that for his own reasons, he was desperate to discover what the—how were they called, RiH —had to offer.
Morven favored him with a self-satisfied smile. "I spoke of two families reunited, two great families, each after its fashion, yours newly-elevated by your late father's valor in the Ceo's service. Whatever his later failings, he was a warrior of prowess and daring, which run in your line as inheritable traits, judging from the surprising resistance you and your brothers mounted against us—" He raised a hand to stay interruption. "Pray do not demur my praise! Let understanding exist, even here. I never believed it was cowardice which brought you back to the Holdings. Rather, your loving concern for the welfare of the Skyan people conceived some scheme among the three of you—do not trouble to deny it, for you have won my admiration thereby—for subverting our rule, of which your part, dissimulation of surrender, required the greatest steadfastness of heart."
Morven reached for Alysabeth's hand. "Ours, by contrast, is a family steeped in ancient and sophisticated tradition. My daughter, I will have you understand, is a sensitive, intelligent girl of fine breeding, augmented by an education obtained at the center of the greatest civilization humanity has ever produced." He smiled up at the girl. "Whereas you, Donol, well, I intend no insult. Let us say that opportunities you might otherwise have enjoyed were denied you by circumstances of birth and upbringing. Let me hasten to add that this is nothing which cannot be overcome, with proper assistance, through personal application and the passage of sufficient time."
Listening horrified, Lia only now became aware that she had remained standing all this time with the sandwich tray in her hand. Nor did she move as Morven's calm, reptilian gaze flickered across her. He grinned at Donol. "I even suspect, with no offense intended, that certain of your aptitudes— except perhaps with the occasional help of some clumsy, overwilling peasant wench—have been neglected. I refer to those relating to . . . how shall I put it?" Again his eyes fell upon Lia. "I have it: here is a young woman without respectable or undeniable connection to either of our fami-
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lies, too well educated to be wasted as a servant, yet for whom we have no other use."
Donol turned to look at Lia with a peculiar, tentative expression. Never realizing it, she paled another shade and took a step backward.
"Her status among us," Morven continued, "is awkward. Even more so if by marriage she be considered Skyan. Those who preceded Hanover to this world, having for centuries resisted our preeminence, never having sworn submission to the Monopolity, cannot lay claim to any recognition of their existence, let alone legal rights." Lia took another step backward. If Morven noticed, he betrayed no sign. "Upon the contrary, if she is subject to the Monopolity, given her obvious sympathies, she has betrayed loyalties which, by virtue of the circumstances of her birth, it was her solenm obligation to observe. She is, after all, betrothed to a traitor, himself the son of a traitor. Although we remain uncertain, at present, whether she is legally married to him under any jurisprudence. The people call her his *unwedded wife.'"
This time, when the Usurper cast his gaze upon her, she was left no room to doubt it. "There is less confusion here than meets the eye. I mi
ght have used the expression 'proven sympathies.' She was observed this morning receiving unauthorized communication from the outlaw leader himself. This, and the fact I have read the missive in question, settles her status and seals her fate." Another step backward. Lia felt her heel strike the baseboard of a wall. Morven was relentless. "Her life is forfeit. She no longer belongs to herself—if anyone can ever claim to do so—but to the Monopolity of Hanover, a sort of ultimate fine levied, if you will, by Ceo Leupould IX through his lawful representative. She is the property of the imperium-conglomerate, to use, under our authority, or cast aside, as we find helpful in performing our appointed tasks upon this unruly planet."
He reached for a control beneath the desk edge. The crackle of a fiber-guided lasercom which of late linked this room with the administrative office which had been the library preceded an interrogative noise. Morven raised his voice, assuring that all, within and without, might hear and obey. "Mistress Lia Woodgate is to be confined to the tower room whose isolation she appears to find amenable. A new lock is to be fitted upon
its door immediately. When this is accomplished, send someone for her. Meanwhile, keep the doors to this room under watch." He released the switch and lowered his voice. "In her way, Donol, having been educated in the capital, I gather Mistress Lia shares traits in common with my daughter. You will be given the only keythille to that lock. Consider her body a gift from me. Overcome her reluctance by any means you find efl&cacious and diverting. Keep her as long as you wish. Make what use of her amuses you. Dispose of her afterward, as you will."
Donol gulped, looking from Morven, to Lia, to a grinning Alysabeth. Lia dropped the tray, closed her eyes, but remained upon her feet.
"And mark me well," Morven admonished him, "much that you may observe in the handling of this young woman, my own daughter may thank you for having learned." A knock came upon the door. "Is my meaning clear? See that you enjoy yourself. We shall speak further of your future before long."
With these words, he turned his chair, servos whining, wheeled it round the desk and out of the room, to speak with the guards he had sent for, leaving Donol with the two young women, one of whom was now his personal property. A long moment of silence ensued.
"A handsome gift." Alysabeth's smile was sweet. Rising, taking the chair next to him, she laid a soft hand upon his arm. Her voice was level, loud enough to carry to Lia. "My father was always a generous man. If you are generous as well, Donol, you will consider loaning your new toy to me from time to time. I need my pleasure, ^er all. Later, we can play with her together."
Donol gulped.
Chapter XXVII: Luncheon with Alysabeth
Amnesty.
Clutching the all-important document behind his back— rolled into scroU-fonn and bedecked with elaborate seals and ribbons—Donol was content. For the moment. A degree of loneliness accompanied his satisfaction, no one being present to whom he might have declared the latter. No more nor less unused to speaking his feelings than any in this age of dissimulation, still, upon his part, it would have been a remarkable declaration, coming from one who normally felt he possessed so much justification for discontent.
He gazed through the many-paned windows of what had been the library, now the anteroom of Drector-Protempore Morven's office suite. What he saw beyond—in recent memory a grassy meadow surrounding the Holdings where peasants had stooped to gather lawn-herbs—had undergone a striking change over the past few months. At this edge now lay a sinuous, low fortification, festooned with ripmesh, beinged by Oplytes standing at tireless attention, thrustibles ever at the ready.
As always, when he looked upon the grotesque warriors, he wondered what had befallen his brother Arran, whether his death had been merciful. It was possible, he realized, given the jokes an ironic universe delisted in playing upon mortals, that his brother had met his fate at the hands of a brigand who bore the same name as the boy's beloved mentor. One heard more about the infamous Henry Martyn as time passed, and desired to hear less.
Beyond the fortification, clusters of unattractive, boxy fabrications, not unlike those at the starport, gridded by raw streets, comprised a town still under construction for ofiworld conscriptees and retainers, pressganged Skyan work-
ers, along with a great number of volunteers and their families eager to earn Hanoverian currency and eagerer to spend it—too great a host to be quartered within the Holdings, even had this not represented the worst sort of security risk.
What the locals must think of the foreigners, he had no way of imagining. Both were, in their own way, victims of the imperium-conglomerate and its minions upon Skye and elsewhere. Yet, if Donol had been taught to extrapolate from history, they were unlikely to sympathize with one another upon that account. Pressed by lifelong unavoidable adversity —inflicted upon fifty generations trained like domestic animals to identify the source as beneficial—they would, with minimal excuse, visit the consequences of that millennium of pain and frustration upon one another.
Wood and charcoal smoke wafted upward, mingling with the dust and noise of the as-yet unpaved thoroughfares, most of it from cookfires, as other energy necessities were provided for from the estate's collectors. It was, Donol thought, a peculiarly volatile situation, which Morven—as he, himself, would not have done—had created, arguing that the populations regulated one another. It was claimed that, after sundown, even Oplytes could not travel without fear of molestation through the rutted, ring-lit, often muddy streets. Perhaps Morven knew what he was doing. Donol strove to learn from him, supplementing his studies elsewhere. Much waited to be discovered within the rough borders of the new town, toward which end he mustered courage with what rapidity he might. The offworlders had imported exotic tastes in food, liquor, a myriad of vices. Above all, it was rumored, they had brought women who knew secrets in the arts of twining flesh which a country boy, in essence if not by intention, might never dream of. All in all, the changes of the past few months, manifold and drastic though they be, suited him.
Donol turned—phantom caresses of a warmth unwelcome at the moment brushed across his cheeks and down his neck, trickling through his body to his loins, weakening his knees— and faced into the room. Some things never changed, not in ten thousand years. At a field secretary nearby, all hinges and mottled gray-green fabric as foreign to the splendid
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room it invaded as an insect upon a birthday cake, a smartbnish-wielding clerk produced thille after docu-thille which he filed away—and made notes about upon another docuthille. A small fire burned in the grate, as it had at all times of the year since he had been a boy. Bodily sensations again under control, Donol turned back to the window.
That he lived at all, he knew, was entirely to Morven's credit. Yet he had applications in mind for what he had thus far learned—of which Morven likeliest would not have approved—and the time, Donol thought, was arriving when he might begin. It was, he reflected, a matter of hands. Into his hands he had this morning received, from the hands of one he must never think of as the Black Usurper, his long-promised pardon, barquoded in the exquisite hand of Ceo Leupould IX himself and delivered by the hands of the master of the latest vessel to arrive, somewhat worse for the wear, at the starport upon the equator. The document ended his probation, allowing him to set his own hands to the fulfillment of his plans.
Having been assured, some months ago, of achieving the amnesty he had sought with his surrender and paid for with his freedom, he had undertaken frequent expeditions into the growing townlet to minimize what it had cost of his reputation, encouraging an impression (true, to an extent) that, rather than collaborating with the enemy, he was a hostage in his family's name against the good behavior of a world. He had let slip hints that deeper works of retribution were under way. Upon either account, he was therefore not to be held responsible (and, indeed, was not in the Skyan quarter) for atrocities the Usurper's legions committed against the native population.
Officially, he denied
—as might be expected of anyone in his position, even by the most sanguine intransigents—any part in his brother's rebellion. This device was winked at as a necessary deception—pretending to sophistication they did not, in his estimate, possess, Skyans told themselves, as Donol had believed they might, that, here at the Holdings, he seemed to be accomplishing more in pursuit of their cause than Robret in the field—while, at the same time, it ingratiated him with Morven. A delicate, dangerous task, remaining
in the middle thus, but one to which Donol, agreeing with his brothers, felt himself suited.
Of late he had assumed additional risk by offering the Black— Drector-Protempore, he reminded himself, Tarbert Morven —advice which, given his knowledge of Skye and its people, would produce short-term gains for Hanover, strengthening his own position, while in the long run weakening Morven's hold upon the planet. Donol and Robret had been educated in the same school, by the same teacher. (Again the ghostly fingers, the tightened breathing, the tingling in his loins.) Each of the brothers knew well, in schoolroom theory and, of late, in more established practice, the objective of any guerilla—
"Good morning, Donol Islay!" His ruminations were interrupted by a feminine voice and the rustling of velvet, coming from the doorway. He turned, noticing that the clerk had disappeared, in all probability for the midday meal, and watched as Morven's daughter entered the room.
"Good morning, Alysabeth.*'
The girl smiled, acknowledging without words that they were alone. "Rather good afternoon, or very nearly. Have you taken luncheon yet?'*
"Why, no, Alysabeth." The words were delivered in a squeak. Donol was obliged to clear his throat. "I was conferring with your father until a few minutes ago, and had not given thought to eating." He believed he concealed a different hunger which this utterance, and the images it engendered, might otherwise have cast upon his face. With his eyes, he indicated the inner office where he had left the planet's new Drector. "Why do you ask?"
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