Perhaps the Terrans are right and weare savages who resolve our differences by sticking each other with bits of pointed metal.
The world went as it would, and not as men would have it. He could not risk coming up against an armed assailant without a weapon, but he needed freedom of movement. He settled for a dagger, easily concealed beneath his cloak, and a boot knife.
With the hood of his cloak covering his distinctive hair, Regis slipped out the servants’ entrance and down the street. Within a short time, he left the wealthier district. The foot traffic was heavier here, people going about their business in the fair spring weather. No one took any particular notice of him, not even the Guardsmen watching the intersections.
As Regis entered the Trade City, searching for a building that might serve as a “school,” Javanne’s accusation returned with all its sting. He had never taken the time to get to know any of her children except Mikhail. The older sons, Gabriel after his father, and Rafael, he knew only slightly. Both had trained as cadets. He wasn’t sure he would recognize Liriel, the girl who had gone to Neskaya Tower.
As for Ariel herself, he knew what she looked like, a shy, pretty child. But did he really know anything about her?
Ariel . . .
Small shops offered an array of Terran imports, Valeron pottery, and clothing. The area was an uneasy amalgam of the two cultures.
He couldn’t very well knock on doors, asking if anyone had seen a parade of kidnapped children. There was no help for it but to continue up one street and down the next, through the maze of byways and alleys, hoping for a clue. The search would be tedious and methodical, but it was all he could do.
His route took him deeper into the Trade City, past the Street of Four Shadows, where the few licensed matrix mechanics did their business. Here and there, Regis spotted an ale shop, and once he noticed a pair of men, Terrananby their coloring and dress, enter a discreetly marked brothel. He did not like to think of his niece, or any child, in this place.
The street Regis had been following, little more than an alley, twisted and doubled back, paralleling the way he had come. He spotted a broader avenue ahead, and the lacy pattern of trees. Perhaps it led to a residential area.
As Regis neared the opening of the alley, a familiar figure passed by on the intersecting avenue. He drew back, flattening himself against the stone wall, but there was no alarm. He had not been seen. Anxious to not lose his quarry, he crept forward. There she was, walking with a firm stride, her head high.
Tiphani Lawton. Even without her imperious bearing, there could be no mistaking that outlandish costume.
Regis dared not follow too closely. Only a few people were abroad, not enough to hide his presence should she glance back. He tried to move in a casual way, as if he were in no hurry.
A short distance along, Tiphani veered toward a two-storey building. Regis halted a half-block away. From his vantage, the structure looked old but well kept, with a few windows set high in the dark stone walls. The wooden double doors were bound in brass, a luxury for metal-poor Darkover.
Tiphani stopped on the threshold and raised one hand to knock. The door swung open.
Haldred Ridenow stood there.
Tiphani stepped inside. Haldred glanced up and down the street, then shut the door.
Regis proceeded along the street, examining the house as closely as he could without being obvious. He discovered a narrow lane running along the back and far side of the house. While broader than the usual alleys, the lane was hidden from easy view of the street. Even more fortunately, the back wall had not been smooth-finished. Irregularities studded the stone blocks, forming holds for feet and fingers.
A balcony ran along the center third of the building. It looked disused, in poor repair, as did the door to one side and the clouded window. Regis peered up, calculating a route. He had done some mountain-climbing as a youth, but always with ropes and a guide. It occurred to him that he had considerably more experience getting out of tightly locked places than in breaking into them.
About half an hour later, Tiphani Lawton left the building in the direction of Comyn Castle. Regis slipped back into the side passage. He had identified only three ways into the house: the front door, guarded by Haldred, the servants’ entrance, hazards unknown, or the balcony. He might not get a better chance, and any choice was better than standing here like a scarecrow. He folded his cloak over his shoulders to free his arms, grasped the upper edge of a head- high stone, set one foot on the nearest rough patch, and hauled himself upward.
Inch by painful inch, Regis climbed. He moved one hand, digging his fingers into the crevices of the rock. His feet found tiny, almost invisible ledges. He forced himself to test each hold before committing his weight to it. A fall would—no, he must not even think of it. Within a few heartbeats, he was sweating. Silently he cursed himself for not keeping more fit. His shoulders throbbed, and his hands were already scraped raw in half a dozen places.
Halfway up the wall, Regis froze at the muted sound of men’s voices below him. The words were indistinct, yet they seemed to be coming closer. He felt naked, vulnerable, his hold on the wall fragile. One glance would brand him as would-be thief, suspended halfway up the back of a residence, where no honest man had any business. He was now too high to jump down without injury.
A moment later, the voices receded. The walls of the lane had carried and amplified the sound. Regis took a trembling breath and continued upward.
The final part of the climb lasted only a few minutes, but it felt like an eon before Regis reached the balcony. Wooden slats, many of them weathered into splinters, made up the floor. With difficulty, he shuffled to the side where the framing looked more sound. As he grasped the likeliest of the beams, the foot bearing most of his weight lost traction. Boot leather skidded over stone, the noise alarmingly loud.
Suddenly his entire weight hung from one hand. Fire shot through his shoulder as ligaments and muscles stretched under the shock. Somehow he held on.
Panting, Regis grabbed the beam with his free hand. His feet, which had been flailing wildly, slammed into solid wall and held. He inhaled sharply, then pushed with his legs as he pulled with his arms. He might not be as fit as he’d been as a cadet, but he didn’t weigh much more.
The burst of effort raised his body enough so that he could hook one elbow over the edge of the beam. From there, he dragged himself up.
The balcony was in even worse shape than he’d feared. It was by Zandru’s own luck that it hadn’t collapsed, plummeting him to the ground. As it was, he found several splinters among the abrasions on his palms.
“Who? Who’s there?” The words in halting castacame from inside the door. The voice was a child’s.
“It’s all right,” Regis said, keeping his voice low and soothing. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Have you come to take me home?”
Regis smiled, although the child, a boy he thought, could not see. “Yes. Now stand back from the door.”
Bracing himself, Regis inspected the door. It was weathered, although still sound enough to keep out the elements. The lock was cheap, but it held when he leaned his weight into the door. The frame, however, was warped, spongy in places. The wood was not only weakened by the elements but most likely rotted as well. Regis studied the door frame and the beam on which he perched. He might choose wrongly and go crashing down or attract attention from within the house, but he must take that chance.
He selected his target, just below the level of the latch, braced himself on the soundest part of the railing, and landed a hard, percussive kick. From inside came a smothered shriek. The door flexed under the blow, but the frame fractured in places into powdery fragments. Regis closed his eyes and delivered a silent prayer to whatever god looked out for chivalric fools. Then he reached inside. His fingers found the lock.