Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor

by Mercedes Lackey

  Dethor shrugged. “Religion’s at the heart of it, I’d guess,” he opined. “But don’t ask me, ask Alberich.”

  Religion. What about Valdemar could possibly seem so threatening to a religion?

  :There is no one true way,: Taver said. :That is what threatens the Sunpriests; that is what terrifies them. If you offer that to people, you offer them freedom, and you challenge those who claim ultimate authority. If you offer that, you give people options. The Sunpriests rely on being the ultimate, unchallengeable authority; their lives depend on the very opposite of options. Their rule depends on their followers having no options, and relies on blind belief and even blind obedience.:

  :Perhaps, but how do they expect to keep their people in the dark?: Short of building a wall around the country and guarding every exit point, there was no way of keeping people from finding out what was going on outside their borders.

  :Ah, but a war builds that wall, doesn’t it?: Taver responded. :You don’t need stones when you’ve got an enemy.:

  “Interrupting, I hope I am not,” Alberich said from the doorway. He sounded exhausted; when he came into the light, Talamir took a good long look at him, and decided that he was at least as exhausted as he sounded.

  “Hmm. Another fight?” he asked. The Weaponsmaster’s Second was somewhat the worse for wear. He had a bandage across his forehead and another binding his forearm (suggesting that he’d already been to the Healers), bruised knuckles, and other signs that he’d been getting into trouble down in Haven. Small wonder he sounded tired.

  “Fruitful,” was all Alberich said. “But to drink, something wholesome, if you please?” He made a face. “The taste of sour beer, to remove from my mouth.”

  “I very much please, lad, and get off your feet,” Dethor said quickly, and Alberich limped into the room. Dethor tilted the kettle at the hearth and poured out a mug of mulled wine, handing it to Alberich who sat down and accepted it, draining half of it in a single go. “So, what’d you net us this time?”

  “Smugglers,” Alberich replied. “Of vile things in—of information out.” He raised a weary eyebrow. “One leak less, there is, and the jail, full.” He still looked troubled, though, and Talamir knew why; it wasn’t that he hadn’t done well, it was just that he was concerned that there were informants who were eluding him. Anyone that Alberich caught down in the slums of Haven would not likely be sending the most sensitive information. Not that there was any sign that there was such a leak, but they always had to assume that one could exist.

  Finding those leaks was Talamir’s job; Alberich could not function in Court circles, while Talamir could, cultivating a mild-mannered and quiet demeanor, saying little and all of that agreeable and sympathetic. He came across as unworldly and just a bit absent-minded. People confided in him a great deal, and generally had no idea how much they had told him.

  Nevertheless, there was no doubt in Talamir’s mind that if saboteurs and couriers were to materialize in Haven, they would be living and operating in the area that Alberich was responsible for. Elsewhere, people were curious about their neighbors. In effect, each little quarter outside of the most impoverished areas was a kind of village, where everyone knew everyone else and wanted to know what they were up to. Not so around Exile’s Gate. The inhabitants were utterly indifferent to the doings around them, and with good reason. Those who were too curious often ended up on—at best—the wrong end of a beating.

  “Plenty of damage can come out of Exile’s Gate,” Talamir assured him. “Anything you do to stop it from traveling to our enemies is another arrow in our quiver.”

  Alberich sighed. “It seems like not enough.” But he leaned back and accepted a refill and an apple, which he peeled with a frown of concentration, getting the entire peel off in one piece. The knife made a crisp sound as it passed through the flesh.

  “If you were a maid, you’d be tossing that over your shoulder, and looking for the letters of your husband’s name in it,” Dethor observed, as Alberich carefully set the long curl of peel aside.

  Alberich regarded him somberly. “Is that so? In Karse, such are for the children fried and dipped in honey. I have told you, divination a thing of witchcraft is. No Karsite maiden would dare such a thing, for the fear of the Fires.”

  Once again, Talamir was struck by how very different the Karsites were. A Valdemaran wouldn’t think twice about tossing an apple peel, reading the tea leaves, wishing in a fountain. And that was the essence of the problem that faced the agents sent into Karse.

  “Have you eaten?” Talamir asked, instead of commenting. “More than just that apple, I mean.”

  Alberich shrugged; Talamir took that as a negative, and made up an impromptu meal for him from the remains of supper’s meat and salad and some bread. Since Alberich took it with polite thanks, then absently ate it in less time than it had taken Talamir to make it, the King’s Own was certain that he must have been famished.

  “Glad enough, I am, to be rid of such filth as were locked away,” Alberich continued, swallowing the last bite whole and absently licking his fingers. “Only, I wish it were more that I was doing. In the South . . .”

  That was as good an opening as Talamir was likely to get, and he took it, explaining what he had in mind. He knew Alberich very well now; he didn’t waste his breath in trying to convince the man of anything, just stated his case. He watched as Alberich’s eyes took on that curiously unfocused appearance that meant he was discussing the idea with his Companion.

  This gave Talamir plenty of time to study Alberich, and he didn’t like what he saw.

  Besides the bandaged forehead and forearm—not his sword arm, which was telling—there was a bulge beneath the sleeve covering the biceps of that same arm that suggested another bandage, perhaps of a previous wound. The scars left from the burns on his face were crisscrossed by others now. That, as Talamir recalled, was a favorite tactic of low-and-dirty street fighting—to go for the face, figuring that the pain and blood that any facial cut produced would be such a distraction that it would be easier to go in for a kill.

  Not that facial scars were going to make him stand out in the neighborhoods and the company where Alberich was going at night. The opposite was true, actually; the more scars, the more he would fit in. Beneath the scars, the face was good, if carved on harsh lines—a long oblong with a stubborn chin, high cheekbones, wide brow, heavy eyebrows set in a permanent scowl, aquiline nose, and the eyes of a goshawk, fierce and wild, with the barest hint of something that was not quite sane. Or at least, it was a peculiar sort of sanity, that saw deeper into dark places and could stare into the abyss without flinching. Perhaps it was the curious quality that Alberich’s eyes had of never being the same color twice in a row, varying from the gray of a threatening storm through a muddy green-brown, to (as they were tonight) something close to black.

  For the rest, well, there was no doubt that even in the company of Heralds, who were a fit and athletic group, Alberich stood out. It was not that he had a perfect body—at least, not in the sculptural sense—it was something else. The practiced eye picked out the quality of muscle, the way every movement was just enough and no more, the absolute stillness at rest, and the immediate response when one was called for. Every movement was exact. It was difficult to describe, but easy to see when one knew what to look for. There was a fine economy in Alberich’s actions, not a bit of energy wasted, and nothing held back when it was needed.

  All of which, of course, came across as predatory and threatening, and probably all to the good down there in the slums.

  “So,” Alberich said at last. “I will think further on this.”

  It was a disappointing reply, but Talamir tried not to show his disappointment. There was nothing more he could add to his argument, and anything else would be nothing more than pressure that Alberich would probably respond poorly to.

  “Seeking my bed, I should be,” Alberich continued, rising, and looking down at them solemnly. “Dethor’s Second, I st
ill am, and there Trainees always are.”

  They bade him good night, and once he was out of the room, Dethor shrugged. “Well, there it is,” he said philosophically. “It’s up to him now.”

  “And hope he can find a straight path through all our tangles,” Talamir added—wondering if he ought to begin praying to the Sunlord, just for a little help. And whether, if he did, the Sunlord would take it amiss and tangle things up even further.

  Alberich lay in his bed, hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. There was no fire in his room, but a dim light from the lanterns and torches lighting the gardens came through the curtains at his window and created soft shadows, contrasting with the deeper pools of darkness among the beams. He was acutely conscious of little things, all of them so alien, so very different to the things he found ordinary. . . . The crisp herbal scent of the sheets, not Karsite sairel, but Valdemaran lavender. The shape of the room, long and narrow rather than square. The flavors lingering on his tongue. The cadence of conversation in the next room. All these things speaking eloquently of another place than the one he called home.

  And his mind buzzed with activity, though his body was still. This was a pretty little quagmire that had been set at his feet. . . .

  Granted, he had been helping the Lord Marshal’s men, but he’d done so knowing full well—and having warned them all, as well—that no one not born in Karse, or at least raised there from early childhood, could ever pass as Karsite. Now he was punished for that, for that had been sophistry, a way of appeasing both sides of his conscience without having to compromise either, and he had known it. Now he was caught, and there could be no evasion. Either he could aid Valdemar against Karse, or by withholding his aid, help Karse instead, knowing he was handicapping Valdemar.

  Such a choice, and at the moment he could see no way of acting, or not acting, that would not cause harm. Violate his pledged word, or effectively cripple the abilities of those who had succored and adopted him to defend themselves. Betray his home, or those who had saved him.

  :Talk to me, Chosen,: Kantor demanded. :You’ve closed yourself off to me. Trust me as I trust you; let me hear your thoughts.:

  :You won’t like them,: he replied mordantly.

  :Perhaps not,: Kantor countered. :But at least you will be talking to me about it. Perhaps we can find answers if we both look for them.:

  He took a moment to frame his thoughts. :If I do what Talamir asks of me, I go against my oaths. And it is of no use at all to claim that the spies will work only against the Tedrels when my people are working hand-in-glove with them. Act against the Tedrels, and Karsites will bleed.:

  :Little doubt,: Kantor agreed, as he stared at the shadowy ceiling, listening to the indistinct murmur of voices in the next room. :But how are you being true to your oaths if you withhold help that could shorten this fight? You know that your Sunpriests will not hesitate to add Karsite troops to the Tedrels in order to defeat Valdemar, and the longer the wars go on, the more Karsites will die.:

  :I have no control over what the priests do or do not do,: he said stubbornly. :And I do not know, not for certain, that they will order my people into this affray. What they do is in their own hands, and the will of Vkandis. I can only control my own actions, and I am the one who is responsible for what comes of them.:

  He felt Kantor ruminating over that one; well, he’d spent enough time agonizing over the problem himself, and it was the only answer he could come to. No matter what other people did, if he was to remain true, he could only do what he felt was right.

  :Pah,: Kantor said in disgust. :Why must the right answers be so unsatisfactory? But, Chosen, this might be right by your oaths, but must you remain bound by oaths to those who violated their responsibilities, not only to you, but to the people they lead?:

  :If I break those vows,: he replied slowly, painfully, :I become no better than they. Who will trust me, if I break my vows? How can I trust myself?:

  Silence again, as Kantor considered this as well. This time, his reply was only a frustrated sigh.

  :I have no argument for you that would not also be sophistry,: Kantor admitted, after the silence had gone on for what seemed to be a candlemark at least.

  Strangely enough, that reply brought him a modicum of relief. Kantor was with him. Kantor was at least as uncomfortable with the situation as Alberich was, but the Companion was with him. Kantor, his best and truest friend in the world, was not going to use that friendship to try and persuade him of something against his conscience. Now all he had to do was argue with himself.

  He sensed Kantor thinking furiously and waited to see what the Companion would come up with. :I don’t suppose,: Kantor offered diffidently, :that you could get some sort of dispensation from the Priests of Vkandis absolving you of those oaths?:

  :Geri won’t give that. He can’t offer it on his own authority, and I wouldn’t accept it from him even if he did.: No matter what the Sunpriests down in Karse did, Geri knew that, short of an apparition of the Sunlord Himself, there was no way that he could absolve Alberich of previously made vows.

  And as for asking for some sort of message from Vkandis Himself—He flinched away from the very notion.

  For whatever reason, the Sunlord had elected to permit the Sunpriests to act as they were. Only He knew what was in His mind. Alberich could speculate, but—

  Here was the truth of it all: who was he that Vkandis should appear to him to absolve him of his oaths? Only one man in exile, one man who could only prove his faith by remaining faithful. . . .

  :Chosen—: Kantor said suddenly, interrupting his thought. :Let me ask you this. Suppose, just suppose, that you were not bound by those oaths. What would you do in that case, if you were completely free to do what you wished to do?:

  What would he do? :I haven’t thought about it, haven’t even considered it. There was no reason to,: he replied honestly. And, then answered just as honestly, :If I were free, I would aid all those agents without a moment of hesitation. I’d go myself, if the Council could be persuaded to trust me. In fact, I’d demand to go—:

  :Why?: Kantor interjected. :Why would you demand to go?:

  That was an easy question to answer, for it was the sum of all of his turmoil. :Because no one born and raised in Valdemar could ever be so careful of the lives of the children of Karse as I. No one but I would care enough to take the extra effort to be sure no harm came to them.:

  Alberich was no Empath, but the sudden flood of triumph that welled up from Kantor was a thing so tangible that it felt like the beams of the rising sun, reaching upward into the heavens at dawn. It so surprised him that he felt stunned, too shocked for words.

  But Kantor had words enough for him.

  :Then, Chosen, Alberich, Herald of Valdemar and Captain of Karse—make more of you! Make them out of the Heralds that Talamir brings to you! Give them not only the things that Talamir wants, but the memories, good and ill, that have made you what you are! Do that—and they will be as tender of Karsite lives as you, and you could ask for no better stewards in your absence.:

  He lay blinking for a long moment as the sense of that penetrated. Then he closed his eyes and considered the advice from every possible angle.

  And he could find no flaw in it. What better thing could he do for his people than this? How could it violate his oath to create more protectors of his people? Kantor was right. Kantor was right!

  Relief flooded into him with such force that he felt dizzy with it, and he clutched the sides of the narrow bed as it seemed to move beneath him. And when the feeling of release ebbed a little, he felt his face wet with unexpected tears—

  Oh, my people—oh, my beloved people—I can send you protectors to take my place at last, at long last!

  He rubbed the tears away with his sleeve, swiftly controlled himself, and realized that the murmur of voices in the other room had not stilled. Dethor and Talamir, Sunlord bless them, were still deep in their plans, searching for answers—

&n
bsp; :—trying to find a way to persuade you without pressuring you—: Kantor pointed out.

  Yes. They would be. They had been as careful of his honor as he was. More, perhaps, because they did not understand the reasons behind what he did, they only honored his conviction that he needed to do them.

  He got out of bed; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d rejoined a discussion while in a nightshirt and sleeping trews. He made his way to the doorway of the sitting room, and stood there a moment, silent, seeing again the strain, the care, the burden of duty weighing both of them down.

  At least this time he’d be able to lift some of that, not add to it.

  He cleared his throat, and they looked up, startled.

  “I believe, my brothers,” he said, with a nod to both of them that acknowledged their kinship without unnecessary words, “I believe, help you I can. And must. So speak you with your Healers, and tell them, Alberich of Karse wishes this, most devoutly.”

  He waited just long enough to enjoy the look of stunned shock and amazement on both their faces. Then he turned and made his way back to his bed—there to enjoy the first untroubled night of sleep he’d had since the Tedrel Wars began.

  10

  THE MindHealers, with one adventurous exception, were not happy about the plan, which was not really a surprise. Alberich did not give a toss whether they were happy about what he was doing. All he cared about was that they had agreed to the project.

  The Heralds he had recruited for his agents were a diverse lot; four of them, which was all he would risk on this venture. He didn’t know any of them well, which was another good reason for having chosen them. Three of them were too old for him to have trained, and the fourth had been so average that he was entirely unmemorable. One sun-weathered, dark-haired man who was a tinker, and thus had all the skills to pass successfully as a Karsite tinker. One, in his late middle-age years, was from a family of herdsman, and thus able to pass as another goatherd who had been displaced from his home in the hills by the war. In fact, he could probably make a fine case for having had his herds confiscated by the Tedrels, leaving him with nothing but the meager possessions he could carry on his own back. The third was a youngster, a lad who had just gotten his Whites—but he had three advantages. First, he was from a forester family just on the Border near Burning Pines. Second, he had been an orphan, forced to take responsibility for himself from an early age. As a consequence, he acted more like a young man in his late twenties than one just barely eighteen. And thirdly—thirdly, he was smart. He had a strongly developed sense for self-preservation; he thought before he said or did anything. He, of all of them, was the likeliest to be recruited by the Tedrels themselves and the most likely of anyone who had volunteered to be able to keep his head and stay plausible when within their ranks. There was something to be said for being the type that has been knocking about in the world before becoming a Herald, in this case.