an outer gate, on a driveway which curved through gardens and parkscape,
Flandry saw first the tile roof of the manor above shading trees, then
its half-timbered brick bulk, at last its outbuildings. Situated around
a rear court, they made a complete hamlet: servants’ cottages, garages,
sheds, stables, kennels, mews, workshops, bakery, brewery, armory,
recreation hall, school, chapel. For centuries the demesne must have
brawled with life.
On this day it felt more silent and deserted than it was. While many of
the younger adults were gone to their militia units, many folk of every
other age remained. Most of them, though, went about their tasks
curt-spoken; chatter, japes, laughter, song or whistling were so rare as
to resound ghostly between walls; energy turned inward on itself and
became tension. Dogs snuffed the air and walked stiff-legged, ready to
growl.
At a portico, the gamekeeper who accompanied Flandry explained to a
sentry: “We met this fellow on the riverside lumber road. He won’t talk
except to insist he has to see the voivode alone. How he got here
unbeknownst I couldn’t well guess. He claims he’s friendly.”
The soldier used an intercom. Flandry offered cigarettes around. Both
men looked tempted but refused. “Why not?” he asked. ‘They aren’t
drugged. Nothing awful has happened since mobilization, right?” Radio
news received on his minicom had been meager during the seven planetary
days of march; entering inhabited country, he and Kossara had shunned
its dwellers.
“We haven’t been told,” the ranger grated. “Nobody tells us a thing.
They must be waiting–for what?”
“I’m lately back from an errand in the city,” the guardsman added. “I
heard, over and over–Well, can we trust those Impies the Gospodar
called in along with our own ships? Why did he? If we’ve got to fight
Terra, what keeps them from turning on us, right here in the Zorian
System? They sure throw their weight around in town. What’re you up to,
Impie?”
A voice from the loudspeaker ended the exchange. Danilo Vymezal would
see the stranger as requested. Let him be brought under armed escort to
the Gray Chamber.
Darkly wainscoted and heavily furnished like most of the interior,
smaller than average, that room must draw its name from rugs and drapes.
An open window let in cool air, a glimpse of sunlight golden through the
wings of a hovering chiropteroid. Kossara’s father stood beside, arms
folded, big in the embroidered, high-collared shirt and baggy trousers
of his home territory. She resembled her uncle more, doubtless through
her mother, but Flandry found traces of her in those weather-darkened
craggy features. Her gaze could be as stern.
“Zdravo, stranac,” Vymezal said, formal greeting, tone barely polite. “I
am he you seek, voivode and nachalnik.” Local aristocrat by inheritance,
provincial governor by choice of Gospodar and popular assembly. “Who are
you and what is your business?”
“Are we safe from eavesdroppers, sir?” Flandry responded.
“None here would betray.” Scorn: “This isn’t Zorka-grad, let alone
Archopolis.”
“Nevertheless, you don’t want some well-intentioned retainer shouting
forth what I’ll say. Believe me, you don’t.”
Vymezal studied Flandry for seconds. A little wariness left him, a
little eagerness came in. “Yes, we are safe. Three floors aloft,
double-thick door, for hearing confidences.” A haunted smile touched his
lips. “A cook who wants me to get the father of her child to marry her
has as much right to privacy as an admiral discussing plans for regional
defense. Speak.”
The Terran gave his name and rank. “My first news–your daughter Kossara
is unharmed. I’ve brought her back.”
Vymezal croaked a word that might be oath or prayer, and caught a table
to brace himself.
He rallied fast. The next half-hour was furiously paced talk, while
neither man sat down.
Flandry’s immediate declaration was simple. He and the girl lacked
accurate knowledge of how matters stood, of what might happen if her
return was announced. She waited in the woods for him to fetch her, or
guide Vymezal to her, depending on what was decided. Flandry favored the
latter course–the voivode only, and a secret word to the Gospodar.
He must spell out his reasons for that at length. Finally the Dennitzan
nodded. “Aye,” he growled. “I hate to keep the tidings from her mother