“Perhaps there are many who do not consider it such a privilege—” Danilo began hotly, and Lerrys drawled, “Does it matter what such people think? Or, in denying them that privilege, are you simply demanding your own, Lord Danilo, as Warden of Ardais—”

But before Danilo could answer that, there was a commotion in the front room; then Dyan Ardais strode into the back room, where the few remaining senior officers, and the Comyn, were sitting. He came directly to their table.

“Greetings, kinsmen.” He bowed slightly. Danilo, as befitting a foster-son in the presence of the Head of his Domain, rose and stood awaiting recognition or orders.

Dyan was tall and spare, mountain Darkovan from the Hellers; his features aquiline, his eyes steel-gray, almost colorless, almost metallic. Ever since Regis had known him, Dyan had affected a dress of unrelieved black, whenever he was not in uniform, or clad in the ceremonial colors of his Domain: it gave him a look of chilly austerity. Like many hillmen, his hair was not the true Comyn red, but coarse, curly and dark.

“Danilo,” he said, “I have been looking for you. I might have known I would find you here; and Regis with you, of course.”

Regis felt the little ironic flicker of telepathic touch, recognition, awareness, annoyingly intimate, as if the older man had taken some mildly unsuitable liberty in public, tousled his hair as if he were a boy of eight or nine; nothing serious enough so that he could object without loss of dignity. He knew Dyan liked to see him ill at ease and off balance; what he did not know was why. But the Ardais Lord’s face was blank and indifferent.

He said, “Will you both dine with me? I have something to say to you, Danilo, which will affect your plans for Council season, and since I know your first move afterward would be to tell it to Regis, I might as well say it to both of you at once and save the time.”

“I am at your orders, sir,” said Danilo with a slight bow.

“Will you join us, cousin?” Lerrys asked, and Dyan shrugged. “One drink, perhaps.”

Lerrys slid along the bench to make room for Dyan and for his young companion; Regis did not recognize the younger man, and Lerrys, too, looked questioningly at Dyan.

“Don’t you know one another? Merryl Lindir-Aillard.”

Dom Merryl was, Regis thought, about twenty; slender, red-haired, freckled, good-looking in a boyish way. With a mental shrug—Dyan’s friends and favorites were no business of his, Aldones be praised—he bowed courteously to young Merryl. “Are you kin to DomnaCallina, vai dom? I do not think we have met.”

“Her step-brother, sir,” Merryl said, and Regis could hear in the other young man’s mind, like an echo, the question he was too diffident to ask: Lord Dyan called him Regis, is this the Regent’s grandson, the Hastur Heir, what is he doing here just like anyone else, like an ordinary person— It was the usual mental jangle, wearying to live with.

“Are you to sit in Council this year, then?”

“I have that honor; I am to represent her in Council while she is held at Arilinn by her duties as Keeper there,” he said, and the annoying telepathic jangle went on: in any other Domain it would bemy Council seat, but in this one, damn all the Council, rank passes in the female line and it is my damned bitch of a half-sister, like all women, coming the mistress over us all—

Regis made a strong effort to barricade himself and the trickle of telepathic leakage quieted. He said politely, “Then I welcome you to Thendara, kinsman.”

The dark, slender youngster sitting between Lerrys and Rafe Scott said shyly, “You are Callina’s brother, domMerryl? Why, then, I shall welcome you as kinsman too; Callina’s half-sister Linnell was fostered with me at Armida, and I call her breda. She has spoken of you, kinsman.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know all of DomnaCallina’s relatives,” Merryl returned, in the most indifferent formal mode. Regis winced at the direct snub he had given the boy, and suddenly knew who the other must be; Kennard’s younger son, Marius, never acknowledged by the Council, and educated among the Terrans. Regis hadn’t recognized Marius, but that wasn’t surprising; they moved in different orbits and he had not seen the boy since he was the merest child. Now he must be all of fifteen. He seemed indifferent to Merryl’s snub; was he merely so accustomed to insults that he had truly learned to ignore them, or had he only learned not to seem to care? With a little extra courtesy, Regis said, “Dom Marius; I did not recognize you, cousin.”

Marius smiled. His eyes were dark, like a Terran’s. “Don’t apologize, Lord Regis; there aren’t many in Council who do.” And again Regis heard the unspoken part of that, or would admit it if they did. Lerrys covered the small, awkward silence by pouring wine, passing it to Dyan with some offhand comment about the quality of wine here not being the best.

“But as a Guardsman, cousin, no doubt you’ve learned to ignore that.”

“One would never think, now, that you had worn a Guardsman’s uniform, Lerrys,” Dyan returned, affably enough.

“Well, I did my share of it for a Comyn son,” Lerrys said, with a grin, “as did we all. Though I do not remember seeing you among the cadets, Merryl.”

Merryl Lindir-Aillard said with a grimace, “Oh, I caught one of the fevers about the time I should have done service in the cadets, and my mother was a timid woman, she thought I’d melt in the summer rains… and later, when my father died, she said I was needed at home.” His voice was bitter. Danilo said, smiling, “My father felt so too; and he was old and feeble. He let me go, willingly enough, knowing I should better myself there; but he was glad to have me home again. It’s not easy to judge where one is needed most, kinsman.”

“I think we have all had experience of that,” said Dyan.

“You didn’t miss anything,” said Lerrys. “Zandru’s hells, kinsman, who needs sword practice and training at knife play in this day and age? The Cadets—saving your presence, Lord Regis—are an anachronism in this time, and the sooner we admit it, and call them an honor guard in fancy dress, the better off we’ll be. The Guardsmen police the city, but we ought to take advantage of the Terran offer to send Spaceforce to teach them modern police techniques. I know you must feel as if you missed what every Comyn kinsman should have, Merryl, but I spent three years in the Cadets and two more as an officer, and I could have done as well without it. As long as you look handsome in a Guardsman’s cloak—and I can see by looking at you that you’ll have no trouble with that—you already know all you’ll need for that. As I’m sure Dyan’s told you.”

“There’s no need to be offensive, Lerrys,” Dyan said stiffly. “But I might have expected it of you—you spend more time on Vainwal exploring alien pleasures than here in Thendara doing your duty as a Comyn lord! It seems to be the climate of the day. I can’t blame you; when the Altons neglect their duty, what can one expect of a Ridenow?”

“Are you jealous?” Lerrys asked. “On Vainwal, at least I need not conceal my preferences, and if the Altons can spend their time idling throughout the Empire, by what right do you criticize me?”

“I criticize them no less—” Dyan began hotly.

“Lord Dyan,” said Marius Alton angrily, “I thought you at least were my father’s friend—or friend enough not to judge his motives!”

Dyan looked him straight in the eye and drawled, “Who the hell are you?”

“You know who I am,” Marius retorted, “even if it amuses you to pretend you do not! I am Marius Montray-Lanart of Alton—”

“Oh, the Montray woman’s son,” Dyan said, in the derogatory mode implying brator foundling.

Marius drew a deep breath and clenched his fists. “If Kennard, Lord Alton, acknowledges me his son, it matters nothing to me who else does not!”