“Why did you never accept a seat among the Hasturs?” I countered.

He nodded. “I see.”

“Lawton, I don’t fight Terra. I don’t much like having the Empire here, but Darkover just doesn’t fight by cities and nations and planets. If an Earthman were my enemy, I’d file an intent-to-murder, and kill him. If a dozen of them burned my house or stole my stud animals, I’d get my com’ii together and we’d kill them. But I can’t feel anything at all about a few thousand people who have never done me either good or ill, just because they’re here. It isn’t our way. We do our hating by ones, not by millions.”

“I can admire that psychology, but it puts you at a disadvantage against the Empire,” Lawton said, and sighed. “Well, I won’t keep you — unless there’s something else I can do for you?”

“Maybe there is. Do you know a man who uses the name of Kadarin?”

The reaction was immediate. “Don’t tell me he’s in Thendara!”

“You know him?”

“I wish I didn’t! No, I don’t know him personally, I’ve never actually set eyes on him. But he pops up everywhere. He claims Darkovan citizenship when he’s in the Terran Zone, and somehow manages to prove it; and I understand he claims to be a Terran, and prove it, outside.”

“And we can’t deny him his Thirteen Days.”

I chuckled. I had seen Terrans on Darkover baffled, before this, by the seemingly illogical catch-as-catch-can of the Thirteen Days. An exile, an outlaw, even a murderer, had an inalienable right — dating from time out of mind — to spend one day in Thendara, thirteen times a year, for the purpose of exercising his legal rights. During that time, provided he commits no overt offense, he enjoys absolute legal immunity.

“If he stayed one second over his limit, we’d grab him. But he’s careful. We aren’t even able to hold him for spitting on the sidewalk. The only place he ever goes is the Spacemen’s Orphanage. After which, seemingly, he vanishes into thin air.”

“Well, you may be rid of him soon,” I said. “Don’t prosecute me when I kill him. He’s filed intent-to-murder on me.”

“If I could only be sure it wouldn’t work the other way,” Lawton smiled, as I rose to go.

But as I crossed the threshold, he called me abruptly back. The friendliness was gone; he strode toward me, wrathfully.

“You’re carrying contraband. Hand it over!”

I handed the gun to him. There must, of course, have been a clarifier screen there. Lawton clicked the chambers; then he stared, frowned and handed it back to me.

“Here. Take it. I didn’t realize.”

He thrust it at me, impatiently. “Go on, take it! But get out of here before anyone else catches you. And give it back. If you need a permit, I’ll try to get you one. But don’t go around carrying contraband!” He pushed the gun back into my hand and virtually shoved me out of the office. I turned it over, baffled, as I walked toward the elevator. Then my name fell on a small name plate: RAFAEL SCOTT.

And suddenly I knew I was not going to ask either Dio or Marius for an explanation.

“Very well, my lords. I will do as you wish!”

The woman’s voice stopped me, cold, as I parted the curtains and stepped into the enclosure of the Altons, in the Council Hall of the Comyn.

We had come late to the Hidden City; so late that there had been no time to send word to Old Hastur, or even to make my presence known to Linnell who, as my nearest kinswoman and foster sister, would have been informed at once. Marius, who had never been accepted in Comyn Council, had parted from me outside the council hall, and gone to take his place in the lower hall among the lesser nobles and younger sons. I had climbed the stairs to the long gallery, intending to slip quietly through the curtains into the enclosure assigned to the Altons of the Comyn hierarchy.

I stood there, startled; for it was Callina Aillard who was speaking.

I had known her all my life, of course. She was my cousin, too; Linnell’s half sister. But when I saw her last, six years ago — I shied away from the memory — she had been a girl, quiet, colorless. Now I saw that she was a woman, and beautiful.

She was standing, her head flung back, before the High Seat; a slender woman with fair fragile features, in a dark robe. Gems were braided into her long hair; gold chains about her slender throat and a golden chain about her waist,, giving her somehow the look of a prisoner, hung with fetters and yet defiant. Her voice rang out again, clear and angry.

“When before this has a Keeper been subject to the whims of the Council?”

So that was it!

Marius hadn’t told me there was a new Keeper in Comyn Council; and I hadn’t thought to ask.

In fact, he hadn’t told me much. I looked down now, slipping into my seat behind the railings, at the Council Hall of the Comyn.

It was a high, vaulted room, filled with shadows and sunlight. In the lower hall, the lesser nobles were ranged; along the dais, or gallery, were the Comyn, each family in its own enclosure, ranged in a semicircle. In the center, in the High Seat, old Dantan of Hastur, Regent of the Comyn, was standing; behind him, in the shadows, was a young man I could not see clearly. Beside him, I recognized young Derik Elhalyn, Lord of the Comyn — ruling under Hastur until he reached his majority next year, Derik, lounging in a chair, looked bored.

I looked around, getting my bearings quickly. Dyan Ardais glanced up, with an enigmatic grin, as if he sensed my presence. Beyond him Dio Ridenow was seated among her brothers; I saw my cousin Linnell, but from where she sat I knew she could not see me.

But my eyes came back to Callina. A Keeper!

Not for years had there been a Keeper seated in Comyn Council. Old Ashara had kept to her tower during my lifetime, during my father’s lifetime. She must be unbelievably ancient now. During my childhood, for a short time, there had been a frail flame-haired girl, veiled like a shrouded star, before whom even the Hasturs showed reverence. But when I was still a boy she had died or gone into seclusion, and since that day no young girls had been trained in the secrets of the master-screens. A few sub-keepers and matrix mechanics — I was one, when I cared to take my place among them — kept the relays working. It was hard to realize that my cousin Callina was the Keeper, holding in her frail hands all the incredible power of Ashara.

Yet I knew her courage. The thought roused painful memories. I didn’t want to remember how and when I had last seen Callina.

Old Hastur spoke sternly.

“My lady, times have changed. In these days—”

“In these days they have changed indeed,” she said, throwing back her head with a little silvery ringing of jewels, “when we have slavery on Darkover, and a Keeper can be sold like a shaol in the market place! No, hear me out! I tell you, we would do better to hand over all our secrets now to the accursed Terrans than to ally with the renegades out of Aldaran!”

Her eyes searched and abruptly met mine in the shadows, and unexpectedly she raised her arm and pointed a slender finger at me.

“And there sits one who can prove what I say!”

But I was already on my feet. Ally with Aldaran? I heard my own voice, unbidden.

“You damned, incredible fools!”

Abrupt silence was followed by a sudden stir, a murmur of voices, and a growl; and in dismay I realized what I had done. I had’ jumped feet first into an affaif I really knew nothing about. But the name Aldaran was enough. I looked straight at Old Hastur and defied him.

“Did I hear you say “ally with Aldaran"? With that renegade clan whose name stinks all over Darkover? The men who sold our world to the Terrans.” My voice cracked like a boy’s.

Beside Hastur, young Derik Elhalyn rose to his feet. He made a sign to Hastur and spoke informally.