Read Exile's Song for Free Online Page B

shadows of the streets seemed alive with potential dangers.
    “Oh, no. Cloth Street, where we live, is only a few minutes away. It’s not yet even an hour after sundown, when we have to be indoors.”
    “And you, Ethan?”
    “I live next door to Geremy; our fathers are brothers. Hoy, we all know each other’s name. Except you, domna. ”
    “True. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Margaret Alton.” She spoke her last name almost as if it was spelled Elton, in the way it was pronounced on the vid or at University, the way she had become used to saying it for years.
    “Alton. That’s a good old name.” He spoke the name the way her father had, and Margaret felt a kind of thrill at hearing it said correctly. Ethan also seemed to be very impressed with it, and she wondered if he knew her father was the Senator from Darkover. It seemed likely. She was just too tired to fuss over it.
    I knew she was comynara— I just knew it!
    The words whipped into her mind like a needle, startling her. That sort of thing had happened a few times before, especially when she was tired, but never with such clarity and distinction. Margaret looked at both boys, but she could not tell which one had thought the words, and she supposed it didn’t matter. “Is it much farther?”
    “No,” Ethan said. “Here we are.” They turned the corner into a narrow street, where signs with pictures of various musical instruments hung outside nearly every house.
    “The Street of Musicians,” he announced, making a little bow, and waving his hand like a magician. He was so pleased with himself that, in spite of her exhaustion, Margaret laughed, and the lad laughed with her.

3

    T here were houses on either side of the street, and the doors of most were painted with pictures of a bewildering variety of musical instruments. Margaret identified a kind of harp, an assortment of wooden flutes, and something vaguely like a violin. Its shape was different, more elongated, enough to be sure the tone would be subtly different than anything she knew. The street was poorly lit by flickering torches and the moon, but she could see wood shavings and small pieces of stuff scattered around on the rough cobbles. In a less damp climate, it would have been a terrible fire hazard, but she doubted the debris ever dried out enough to be dangerous.
    It smelled good. The woods gave off pleasant fragrances, the mist which dampened the air was clean, and food was cooking behind the brightly painted doors. These were such homey scents, after days in the confines of the ship, that she felt ready to weep from the pleasure of it. Margaret could not remember ever reacting so strongly on any previous planetfall, and it was a little unnerving. Not unpleasant, precisely, but disquieting, as if there were memories hovering just out of mind, wisps she could not quite grasp.
    From behind one door, or perhaps from the big shuttered window beside it, came the sound of a group rehearsing with stringed instruments. Someone hit a very sour note; Margaret winced. As if in answer, a huge bass voice roared angrily.
    “That’s Master Rodrigo,” Geremy informed her, his earlier formality forgotten. “He’s a terrible bully, but they say he’ll be craft master after Master Everard, because he’s a better musician than Everard’s son Erald. He really is good; I heard him sing last Midwinter, and it made goose bumps all over my arms. He’s almost the best singer in Thendara except for Ellynyn Ardais—and Ellynyn is comyn and an emmasca, so of course he has a wonderful voice.”
    Margaret considered these words. They had not been on the tape of Trade Language of Thendara City, but she was fairly certain she knew what emmasca meant. She had heard the famous castrati of the pleasure world of Vainwal, and could almost wish they were legal on other worlds. They had the reputation of being the finest voices in the Empire. Were they legal on Darkover? Or were they, whatever they were,