Exile's Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

a small grin curled her lips for a second. She wished she had a fur tunic now!
    Margaret tried to dispel the unease the memory of that tunic brought her. Instead, she remembered something Dio had said years before. “The Terrans can dash between the stars, but they have yet to invent any synthetic which is as comfortable as wool or silk. I do wish they would stop trying!” That made her feel better, even as she cursed the clinging material of her Scholar’s uniform. It was, in theory, comfortable in any climate or weather. Like many theories, it worked better in the lab than in the field, and was typical of the Terran passion for technology, and their disdain for nature. All-weather was a concept, like “one size fits all,” probably made up by some idiot who never left the weather-conditioned environment of a Terran compound. Despite her fatigue, Margaret started to feel a little better. There was something so satisfying about sneering mentally at Terrans and their fondness for the unnatural.
    “How would you like to help me out tomorrow, Master MacDoevid? It would be after school.”
    Both lads looked at her, and she realized that they had the same last name. It was not the dark one who answered, but the fairer and taller boy. He had almost red hair in the flickering torchlight, and gave her a shy grin. “My father is Master MacDoevid, domna, I’m just Geremy. I dunna go to school, domna, but I’d be honored to be of service.” He eyed her in the light that spilled from a nearby wineshop. She glanced up at the sign outside the place, and saw something like a tree wearing a crown. Until that moment the actual meaning of “preliterate,” which was how the meager information she had described Darkovan culture, had not sunk in. It was one thing to know something intellectually, and quite another to meet the actuality.
    Margaret was rather surprised at herself, realizing she had unconsciously assumed that young people went to school during the day, even though she knew that on many planets, this was not the case. She had become a scholar, and while she and Ivor had done a great deal of field work in the past decade, she still thought of things as a person from University, not a girl from Thetis or Darkover. And somehow she had imagined that the world of her birth would be more like University or Thetis. It was a profoundly disturbing realization, and she knew she was going to have to spend some time rethinking things.
    Something was nagging at her mind, and she paused to try to figure out what it was. It took a moment for Margaret to realize that it was the persistent honorific the lad used; domna. She had learned mestra which was the equivalent of Ms. or Mistress. But the term Geremy had used meant something like “Noble Lady.” Why was he calling her that? And why did it bring up such a peculiar feeling, as if she could almost remember someone else who was called by that title. Her brain was too weary to puzzle it out.
    “I need to purchase some garments—warm ones, for myself and for my teacher. Do you know where I can get some?”
    Now he grinned. “To be sure. We are both from Threadneedle Street, and we know about cloth.” He sighed. “Our fathers are in the business. And I will take you to MacEwan’s; he is the best tailor in Threadneedle Street. He will be proud to have your custom, domna. ”
    “He is also our uncle,” the other boy muttered, so softly Margaret almost missed the words.
    “A good merchant always keeps business in the family where he can,” she said peaceably. She couldn’t quite figure out the darker lad, who seemed intensely curious and antagonistic at the same time. Geremy seemed to be a friendly fellow, and his cousin—if they were both nephews to this MacEwan, cousin seemed the right relationship—quite another thing. She was just too tired to think straight. She could almost sense his emotions, like the wind stinging her skin, but she could not guess at its reason. His foxy