The Saga of the Renunciates

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  "Good God! I certainly do." Bethany giggled. "No wonder Montray has his own private linguist to write his speeches!" The women exchanged a conspiratorial chuckle; Montray's ineptitude in the Darkovan language was a standing joke in the HQ. "And so that's why you go over all his speeches personally? You know everything about Darkover, don't you, Magda?"

  Ruefully, Magda shook her head. "No, certainly not. No Terran can." And if any Terran could, no Terran woman could. The thought was as bitter as ever. But she put it aside.

  "It would have been different, if the Terran HQ had stayed at Caer Donn. There, the Terrans and Darkovans met more or less as equals, and we could mingle with them as Terrans. There was no need for undercover agents. But here we have to work undercover; the Comyn have completely refused to cooperate. They leased us land for the spaceport, let us hire workmen for construction jobs and allowed us to build the Trade City, but beyond that-oh, hell, Beth, didn't you get all that in Basic Orientation?"

  "Yes, I did; Class B Closed, very limited trade, spaceport personnel restricted to the Trade City. No fraternization."

  "So, you see? No other Terran children will get the kind of chance that Peter, and Cargill, and I did-to grow up playing with Darkovan children, learn the language from the ground up. That's why there are so few of us who can actually pass, on the Darkovan side, as Darkovan-and I'm the only woman."

  Bethany asked, "Then why didn't they keep the HQ at-where was it-Caer Donn? If they were so much friendlier there?"

  "Partly the climate," Magda said. "If you think this is cold, you should see what winter's like in the Hellers. Everything comes to a dead stop, from midwinter-night to the spring-thaw. The climate of Thendara is pleasant-well, moderate anyway-by contrast. Then there was the problem of roads and transport. There's just not enough room at Caer Donn for the kind of spaceport the Empire wanted, not without leveling a major mountain or two, and the Ecological Council on Terra wouldn't have given permission for that even if the locals hadn't objected. Then there's the question of trade and influence. The Aldarans back at Caer Donn rule over miles and miles of mountains, forests, valleys, little villages, isolated castles and a few thousand people. In the Domains there are five good-sized cities and a dozen little ones, and Thendara alone has almost fifty thousand people. So there really was no choice at all, for the Empire. But it means Empire agents, anthropologists and linguists, have to work undercover, and we're still working out the parameters. There are literally thousands of things we don't know yet about this culture. And the Comyn's policy of not helping us at all is a terrific blockade; they don't forbid people to work with us, but the people here just don't do anything the Comyn disapprove of. And that means that those few of us who can pass as Darkovan can practically name our own terms; because even keeping up with the language is a difficult and complicated undercover job. Of course I can't do all the things, here, that a male agent would do. One of a male agent's prime tasks, in linguistics, is to keep up with the dirty jokes; and of course I don't hear them."

  "Why would anyone need to know dirty jokes? Is this for the Folklore Reference section?"

  "Well, that too. But mostly to avoid accidentally offensive-or unintentionally funny-references. You grew up on Terra; would you say, in a serious and formal context, that somebody or other was always in the middle?"

  "Not unless I wanted my audience to crack up and start snickering and leering. I see what you mean; you have to red flag the punch line of the current dirty jokes or any specially notorious old ones. But you don't hear the dirty jokes – "

  "No; I have my own specialty. I mentioned that some expressions aren't used by women-or in front of them, among the polite. There are also special expressions used mostly by women. Darkover isn't one of those cultures that has a special women's language-there are some of them, Sirius Nine for instance, and there's a real translator's nightmare! But no culture is ever completely free of 'women's talk." Not even Terra. For instance, I came across a footnote in my language history text saying that women in one of the major pre-space cultures used to refer to their menstruation as 'the curse.'"

  "Did they really? Why?"

  "God knows; I'm a linguist, not a psychologist," Magda told her. "Listen, Beth-this is fun, but it isn't getting my work done."

  Magda bent over her keyboard and began to type her day's notes into the computer terminal for analysis, programming and storage by the computer experts who would later code them.

  A joke is making the rounds in Thendara, she typed. Heard on three occasions in the last five days. Details vary, but it basically concerns two (three, five) Terrans who were on an outdoor escalator on the port, which malfunctioned, stranding the Terrans for several hours (three days in one version) between the first and second level pending repairs. Implications: Terrans are so addicted to mechanical transport that walking down a half flight of unmoving stairs is physically or psychologically impossible. The implications of this: Darkovan concept of Terrans as physically weak, incapable of effort. Secondary implication: envy of Terran access to machinery, the ease of Terran life-styles? The growing frequency of jokes about Terrans, most of which appear to concern our life-style with special reference to its physical ease, would imply...

  "Magda," Bethany interrupted, "I just got a flash from Montray; do I tell him you're here?"

  Magda nodded. "I'm still officially on duty."

  Bethany spoke into the communicator, listened a moment and said, "Go on in."

  Inside, Montray frowned irritably at Magda's Darkovan clothes. "A messenger just brought word from the Comyn Castle," he said. "One of the Big Names over there-one Lorill Hastur-has just sent for me, and included a request that you-you personally-be brought along to translate. I imagine your friend, the Ardais lady, has been talking about your special skill with the language. So I have a problem." He frowned. "I know perfectly well that it's not according to protocol, and probably improper, too, to take along a woman as official translator on the Darkovan side. On the other hand, I understand one simply doesn't ignore a request from the Comyn. Who are the Hasturs, anyway?"

  Magda wondered how Montray could live on Darkover, even in the Terran HQ, for as much as a year, and still not know precisely who the Hasturs were, and why, "The Hasturs are the most prominent of the Comyn families," she said. "Lorill Hastur is the real power behind the throne. The prince, Aran Elhalyn, is popularly referred to as 'keeping the throne warm with his royal backside, which is the most useful part of him.' Most of the Hasturs for the last two hundred years have been statesmen; they used to sit on the throne as well, but they found it interfered with the serious business of government, so they gave up their ceremonial functions to the Elhalyns. This Lorill is the Chief Councilor-roughly equivalent to a prime minister, with a supreme court judge's power thrown in."

  "I see. I suppose it's important not to offend him, then." Montray scowled at Magda. "You can't go as an official Terran translator in that outfit, Lome!"

  Magda said, "I'm sure it will offend them far less than what I'd normally wear around here. You do know, don't you, that a Terran woman's ordinary dress would be considered, on the Darkovan side, indecent even for a prostitute?"

  "No, I didn't know that," Montray said. "I suppose I'd better take your advice, then; you're supposed to be the expert on women's customs."

  But as they went through the great gates, past the black-leathered Spaceforce man on duty, Montray scowled. "See what you've let me in for? He probably thinks I've picked myself up a Darkovan girlfriend."

  Magda shook her head, reminding him that the Spaceforce guards knew her, and were accustomed to seeing her in Darkovan clothing; she never went into the Old Town without it. But, too late, it occurred to her that she had, perhaps, let Montray in for trouble on the Darkovan side. Terrans were not precisely popular in the Old Town, and the sight of a Terran escorting a respectable Darkovan female could indeed cause v some trouble, if some Darkovan hothead wanted to take advantage of it.

  This is idiot
ic. I know fifteen times as much about Darkover as Montray ever will; yet by strict protocol I'm not even qualified to be an official translator, far less for any position more advanced than that; just because I'm a woman, and Darkover is a world where women don't hold such positions.

  So by accident of birth, I'm permanently disqualified from the work I know best, while an idiot like Montray needs a specially qualified linguist to write his speeches, and two nurses to hold his hand in case he gets lost or has to find his way a hundred meters outside the gates! I should have Montray's job. He isn't even qualified for mine!

  Montray was shivering: Masda had no sympathy for him. Montray knew what the climate was like; he had authority to dress for it, or modify the official uniform in some more suitable way, but he didn't even have the imagination for that.

  I ought to get right off this damn world. There are plenty of planets where I could do the kind of work I'm best fitted for.

  But Darkover is the one I know best. And here, I'm only fit for a woman's job!

  And I can only do even that because I'm a Terran. Darkovan women don't even do my kind of work!

  At the gates of the Comyn Castle, a man in the green-and-black uniform of the City Guard asked their business. He used the derogatory mode, and Magda bristled.

  Montray would not have noticed, but Magda told him stiffly that they had been personally summoned by Lord Lorill Hastur. The Guard went away, returning almost immediately; this time he spoke in the respectful mode, saying that the Lord Hastur had given orders for them to be conducted at once into his presence.

  The hallways of the Comyn Castle were drafty, cold and all but deserted. Magda knew that at this season of the year, most of the Comyn had withdrawn to their own estates throughout the Domains; they gathered here only in Council Season, near midsummer. The Hastur Domain was far away on the borders of the Hellers; she supposed Lord Hastur had stayed here only because events in the capital city required his presence. She carefully studied the corridors, the hangings and ornaments, wanting to make the most of an opportunity, which, for her, might never come again; no woman could hold an official post on Darkover, and she would probably never again enter the Comyn Castle.

  At last they were led into a small audience chamber where Lorill Hastur awaited them: a slight, serious man, with dark red hair tinged with white at the temples. He greeted them with courteous phrases, which Magda translated automatically. She had seen that the only other person in the room was Lady Rohana Ardais. Magda would have said, if asked, that she did not believe in precognition and was skeptical about ESP. Yet the moment she saw the slender, cooper-haired woman, in a dress of violet-blue, seated quietly on a cushioned bench, she knew.

  This has to do with Peter...

  "My kinswoman has made the long journey from Ardais purposely to speak with you," Lorill Hastur said "Will you explain, Rohana?"

  "I came to you from a sense of obligation," Rohana said, "because you were kind to me when I came to you in deep trouble about my son." She spoke to Montray, apparently, but it was obvious that the words were meant for Magda.

  "My husband and I have just received a message from Rumal di Scarp."

  Magda could not quite control a shudder as she translated. "Sain Scarp is the most notorious bandit stronghold in the Hellers," she explained to Montray. (As a child, that word had been used to frighten her little friends into good behavior: "The men from Sain Scarp will get you!")

  Lady Rohana continued: "Rumal hates the men of Ardais with a deadly hatred; my husband's father hanged half a dozen of his men from the walls of Castle Ardais. So now Rumal has sent us a message: that he holds our son Kyril prisoner in the jorst of Sain Scarp; and he has named a ransom which we must pay before midwinter, or Kyril will be sent back to us"-Rohana shivered slightly-"in pieces."

  Montray said, "Lady, my deepest sympathies. But the Terran Empire cannot entangle itself in private feuds – "

  Rohana's eyes blazed. She did not wait for Magda to translate. "I see you still have not understood. When, after I spoke with you, I returned to Castle Ardais, I found my son safe and well at home; he had delayed because of frostbitten feet, and came when he was able to travel. When we received the word from Sain Scarp, he was in the room with us, and he thought it a tremendous joke."

  Magda turned pale, knowing what Rohana's next words would be. "I knew, then, having seen the portrait you showed me, just who is being held in Sain Scarp. Your friend," she said to Magda. "Is he your lover?" She had used the polite term, for which the nearest Terran equivalent was "promised husband"; the derogatory mode would have implied "paramour."

  Magda forced her words through dread. A whole childhood spent hearing tales of bandits in the Hellers made her throat tight. "He was my"-she searched for the precise Darkovan equivalent for "husband," for there were at least three forms of Darkovan marriage-"my freemate. We have separated, but we were childhood friends and I am deeply concerned for his safety."

  Montray, who had followed all this with difficulty, was scowling. "Are you certain? It is rare for any of my men to go so far into the Hellers. Could it not be some other kinsman with a resemblance to your son, Lady?"

  "Rumal sent this with his message," Rohana said, and held out a man's neck-ornament on a fine copper chain. "I know it is not my son's; it was made in Dalereuth, and such work is not sold in the Hellers, nor worn much."

  Montray turned it uneasily in his hands. It was a carved medallion of some blue-green semiprecious stone, encircled in finely worked copper filigree. "You know Haldane better than I do, Magda. Do you recognize it?"

  "I gave it to him." Her mouth was dry. It had been shortly before their short-lived marriage; the one and only time they had traveled together to the plains of Dalereuth. She had bought it for herself, but Peter had admired it so extravagantly that Magda, who after all could not wear a man's ornament, had made him a present of it, in return for-She raised her shaking hands to the nape of her neck, touching the silver butterfly-clasp she always wore.

  He took off the one I had worn, and pinned this one there... as only a lover would dare to do... and I let him...

  "That's pretty conclusive," Montray said. "Damn him, he knew better than to try to get into the Hellers alone. What chance is there that this bandit-di Scarp-will turn him loose, if he finds out he's got the wrong man?"

  "None," Hastur said. "The mountain bandits remember all too well those first few years at Caer Donn, when Aldaran deceived the Terrans into believing it was permitted to use your weapons against them. I hope, for his own sake, that your young man does not reveal his identity."

  Montray said, "Doesn't that just prove that we were right to help the Aldarans, and that you were wrong to stop us? They are still ravaging your people worse than ever, and your Darkovan Compact makes it impossible to attack them effectively. You should have let us finish wiping them out!"

  "I must respectfully refuse to debate the ethics of Compact with you," Hastur said; "it has kept Darkover free of major wars for hundreds of years, and is not open to debate. We still remember our Ages of Chaos."

  "That's all very well," Montray said, "but doesn't it mean anything to you that an innocent bystander may be murdered in a quarrel that is none of his, and that you are condoning their actions by making it impossible for our people to rescue him?"

  "It means a great deal," said Hastur, and his eyes glowed with sudden anger. "I might remind you that he is hardly an innocent bystander, having walked into this situation of his own free will. We did not require him-for that matter, we did not even give him leave-to travel in the Hellers. He went of his free choice and for your purposes, or his own-not ours. But we did not forbid him to go, either; and it is really none of our affair if he suffers the same fate that our own men risk whenever they go there. I might remind you, also, that there was no compulsion upon us ever to tell you of his fate. Nor do we refuse you leave to rescue him, if you can do it as secretly as he went there."

  Montray shook his head. "In the
Hellers, with winter coming on? Impossible. I'm afraid you're right; he knew the risks he was taking, he knew what would happen if he got caught. I'm afraid he'll have to take whatever he brought on himself."

  Magda said in horror, "You're not going to-to abandon him, just write him off?"

  Montray sighed heavily. "I don't like it either, Magda. But what else can we do? He knew the risks; you all do."

  Magda felt her spine prickle, as if the small hairs on her body were all standing on end. Yes, that was the rule of the Intelligence service. The first law and the last is secrecy. Get into trouble, and there's no way to pull you out again.

  "We can ransom him," Magda flared. "I'll stand surety for the ransom myself, if you begrudge it!"

  "Magda, it's not that. We'd gladly pay to get him loose, but – "

  "Impossible," Lorill Hastur said. "Rumal di Scarp would never negotiate with the Terrans; the moment he knew his prisoner was a Terran he would take pleasure in killing him out of hand-by means I would prefer not to describe before women's ears. Your man's only hope is to conceal his origin." He turned to Magda and said, courteously not looking at her (a gesture which spoke a great deal about the quality of Magda's Darkovan dress and manners), "Not knowing otherwise, I would have taken you for a woman of the Hellers. Does your friend speak the language, and know our customs, as well as you?"

  "Better," Magda said truthfully. Her mind was racing. We must think of something! We must! "Lady Rohana, they evidently still believe he is your son. Can you negotiate with them for his ransom?"

  "It was my first thought. I would gladly do this to save a life. But my husband has forbidden me, once and for all, to go near Sain Scarp on any such mission. It was only with difficulty that I won his consent to come and tell you this much."