“All right, but—it’ll take the Guard at least three days to get here.”
“I know. That’s why I already sent my Trainee to get them.” And at Wil’s startled look, said, “You think Alberich only sent me?”
“Wil!”
Langfirch’s voice called from the edge of the forest. Bootknife made a shooing motion and slipped off. Wil hurried back to find his father standing a few feet within the tree line, crossbow in arms.
“We’ve got a visitor,” he said.
• • •
Margot, Addy’s daughter, sat at the trestle table, face drained of color. When she saw Wil, her eyes went wide.
“You are here!” she said.
“Margot,” he said. “It’s been too long. What—”
“They hurt Ryland,” she said, tears boiling up out of her eyes. “They broke his arm!”
Wil dug around in his memory. Ryland—Addy’s son, Margot’s brother. Always a bit of a loudmouth. Apparently it had finally gotten him more than he bargained for.
“I’ll put on tea,” Langfirch said.
“Who did, Margot?” Wil asked.
“Those strangers what’ve been asking about you. His arm, Wil!”
Wil’s heart sank. “What—”
“They said we had to know where you were.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “They said they’d burn the inn down if we didn’t tell them where you were hiding.”
“Did one of them have a deep voice? Black hair, green eyes?” Carris asked from the doorway of her room. Wil turned to glare at her, but the Bard ignored him.
Margot nodded.
“Fent,” Carris said. “The Eternal Journeyman, if you want to get him spun up.” She smirked, but a moment later her mouth melted into a troubled frown. “Madra’s goon. Not what you’d call a negotiator.”
“So much for your loyalty,” Wil said.
The Bard opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
:Vehs,: he thought. :We have a big problem. Can you communicate this to Bootknife?:
:Yes . . . and your problems are bigger than you know.:
Wil felt his stomach twist, and in that instant, he knew without his Companion needing to say it.
:They followed Margot,: he thought.
• • •
Fent wanted to yell, but he couldn’t just yet.
They’d been careful, and now the gods had rewarded them. The locals had done what he knew they’d do—one threat, and they’d run off to the Herald, to this house hidden on a hill in the woods. The temptation to do something the moment they’d spotted the Companions hanging around the Ferryman’s House had been powerful, but he’d reined it in. He’d even been generous and let the woman go back to town without intercepting her. They’d watched from the forest as she ran home. They didn’t want her anyway.
So they waited, poised to do something if anyone else left the house. No one did. Sometimes the Herald would come to the front door and peer out, or the Companions would wander by, but the house stayed silent. And the more they waited, the more of his men Fent mustered. By nightfall, all of them had arrived.
The gods lavished more praise by putting clouds over the moon just for him. He would use that darkness to their advantage. The Herald had escaped them at the Waystation. He’d escaped them on the road. But he couldn’t escape anymore.
Skulking wasn’t Fent’s thing. He had a big voice, the kind that could thunder over a battlefield. Some of his fellow Trainees had named him the War Bard, and he’d loved that so much he’d embroidered it on his handkerchiefs. That name demanded respect, and should have elevated him above the rest of the dreck.
Instead, he’d watched as the Bardic Circle promoted them all to Master, while he kept getting passed over.
They’d found a new name for him then: the Eternal Journeyman.
Well, no one shunted him to the back anymore. Lord Dark and Madra found him useful, even if the Bardic Circle didn’t. They’d given him men to command and big, important things to do. No one asked him to write stupid songs about boring things like royal appointments or trade agreements or who married whom. His voice had a use. It had power, and someone finally recognized that.
Lord Dark certainly seemed impressed by it—that’s why he borrowed it sometimes.
Not that Fent liked that much. Being Lord Dark’s mouthpiece took its toll—every second he spoke through Fent felt like someone had swapped his blood for ice water, and he always felt a bit muzzy-headed and disjointed afterward.
But yelling helped clear it out. Fent intended to turn that Herald’s bones to jelly with his voice.
Fent kept glancing at the small building where the Herald stabled his Companions. Two of his men had orders to tackle that. Madra had given them all clay flasks filled with a special oil she said could burn anything down, and certainly the demonstration she’d given them had convinced him of the weapon’s potency . . . but still. Companions were tricky.
The last light in the house flickered out. They waited one more candlemark, and then he could wait no more.
“Now,” Fent said. He lit the wick on his flask and closed on the house.
One flask arced through the night. It hit the door and bounced, landing on the grass, the wick still burning but the oil inside contained.
Need to throw hard, Fent thought, pulling his arm back—
He heard a hum and felt something cut across his cheek. Gault, who’d been behind him and slightly to the left, collapsed. And now that he looked around, some of them were missing—where’d Lim and Drekker go?
Someone screamed, then someone else. He froze, turning in circles to find the threat. He heard the thunder of hooves—
The clouds split off, spilling moonlight down on them.
He saw the glow of blue eyes and a shining white coat and started to raise his arm, but the club speeding toward his face got there first.
• • •
“The other reason the Ferryman’s House stays on the hill,” Wil’s father had also told him once, “is the caves under it. No matter what the weather, the ferryman can always get to the landing, and get there fast.”
Wil’s whole reason for coming here hadn’t just been because he knew the land. It was because here, he had an exit. And he’d been relatively certain Fent’s crew didn’t know that.
His father, Carris, and Ivy hadn’t been in the house since noon. Wil had used the caves to get them out, then to leave the house and come back around. He and Bootknife had quietly disabled two of Fent’s men before the assassins even launched their attack.
Now Heralds and Companions—Vehs, Aubryn, and Sashay—circled the captives. They’d killed two, an unfortunate side-effect of the skirmish, but at least Fent lived. Wil’s sap had left the man with fewer teeth and a broken nose, possibly a fractured jaw. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to talk right again, but he’d live.
“I’m still amazed that worked,” Bootknife said.
“We caught them by surprise,” Wil said, pulling a set of manacles out of Vehs’s saddlebags. “Same trick that worked on Ferrin. You helped with that. Thank you.”
Bootknife did a little half-bow. “You’re wel—”
Fent suddenly jerked forward, gripping something that Wil hadn’t seen half-buried in the high grass.
He threw—
Wil leaped forward—
The flask hurtled through the air and burst against the Companion’s chest, exploding with a deafening BOOM! Flames engulfed the stallion.
“Shatter the heart that compels him!” Fent shrieked as Wil collapsed on top of him, punching him in the face with a fistful of manacle chain.
Fent’s screams turned high-pitched and his eyes rolled into his head. Around him, Wil heard the thud of not one, but two bodies.
“No . . .” he said, twisting around.
Sashay had collapsed, blue eyes darkened, chest stove inward. Bootknife convulsed on the ground, handspans away from the Companion.
“No!” Wil yelled, running over to the Herald. “No!”
:Move aside!: Aubryn’s Mindvoice compelled him like a physical force, and he danced away as she bent over the Herald, nose to face.
Wil held his breath, manacles dangling uselessly from his fists.
Aubryn looked up.
:I’m sorry,: she said. :I tried.: Her head bent down. :I tried.:
And as it always did with Wil, possessor of a Gift that served simultaneously as blessing and curse—he knew in that moment a Herald had died, without having to be anywhere near the Death Bell.
• • •
Wil sat at the trestle table, drinking tea and rolling the quarrel around. They’d buried Bootknife and Sashay and had handed the gang of assassins over to the Guards and Bootknife’s Trainee. Carris hadn’t been wrong about Fent. “Goon” was high praise. If he knew anything, it would take weeks of healing to get it out of him anyway.
“So then,” Langfirch said. “You’ll leave again soon, hm?”
“Off on another adventure,” Wil said. “The faster I leave, the better.” He cleared his throat. “When you said Ivy could stay with you. . . .”
Langfirch lifted his brows. “Hm?”
Wil closed his fist on the quarrel. “Nothing.”
His father’s gaze went over Wil’s head to a point behind him. “Ho, traitor-Bard,” he said. “Going for a walk, maybe?”
Carris shuffled over, then sat down next to the old man, bound hands in front of her. She didn’t look either of them in the eye, instead watching the quarrel as Wil batted it about.
She licked her lips, took a hesitant breath, and said, “The cache is in a cave on the Baireschild estates. If you bring me a map, I’ll mark it for you.”
Wil froze. “Really?”
“I’ve had some days to think about it, and I’ve decided there’s no point in being loyal to someone who’d burn down a house where they thought a child and an old man were sleeping inside.” She put her fists on the table. “Besides, Androa . . . Madra . . . whatever she calls herself. She’s not an idiot. She’ll have moved everything by now. My information is useless.” She shrugged. “And it’ll probably get you killed. So I have that to look forward to.”
Wil started laughing, setting his tea down as deep, convulsive belly laughs spilled out of him. She watched, bemused.
“What?” she asked.
“One moment.” He went and retrieved his map along with a quill and a pot of ink. “First, mark the location.”
Carris studied the map a few minutes, and then did so.
“Are you going to tell me?” she asked as Wil slid the map away, setting it closer to the fire so the ink could dry.
“Do you really think Madra would have gone to all this effort if she could easily move her cache?” he asked.
Carris opened her mouth, then closed it.
No more words, Wil thought.
At long last. He’d disarmed the Bard.
• • •
Ivy should have been asleep, but poppet was afraid of the dark.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to her, “I’m here.”
The door opened, and her dada came in. She pretended to be asleep, throwing in a few very convincing snores for good measure.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he said, climbing into bed.
Drat, she thought. How’d he know? “Poppet got scared and woke me up.”
Her father sighed. “Of course. I guess it’s better than snails.”
“The Bard-lady said the same thing.”
He chuckled. “Did you talk to her while you were out on the ferry?”
“Yeah. I think she was crying. I told her it was going to be okay because you wouldn’t let us get hurt. Are we leaving tomorrow?”
He didn’t answer. He just kissed the top of her head.
“Go to sleep,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Dada.” She kissed her dolly. “Poppet says she isn’t afraid now.”
“I’m glad.”
After a while, his breathing deepened. In the stillness, Ivy closed her eyes and concentrated.
Good night, Aubryn, she thought.
:Good night, dear one.: The Companion’s voice felt warm and sweet—like fresh wagonwheels—in her mind.
Ivy snuggled down, wrapping herself in her grandfather’s blankets, and drifted into dreaming.
To Catch a Thief
Mercedes Lackey
Herald Arville perched comfortably on the sprung seat of his caravan and clucked his tongue at the two horses pulling it—the unimaginatively named “Ruddy” and “Brownie.” They were, he’d been assured, excellent specimens of a breed of horse called “Zigans.” The one on the right was a bay gelding with a white nose, the left was a chestnut mare with a white blaze. Both had one white foot and heavily feathered fetlocks. Both had stocky bodies, about a hand taller than the average riding horse, and both were about eight years old. Their manes and tails were shaggy and long, and their coats were too rough to ever be glossy, but they were mild tempered and willing and disinclined to be spooked by anything.
What Arville cared about was that they were old friends. He had driven and cared for them for the last twelve months as he and his three human friends—Trainees Rod, Laurel, and Alma—undertook their Journeyman year under Herald Elyn.
The four former Trainees had been absolute best friends before they had all been Chosen. They were all from Haven; Rod was the son of the Goldsmith Guild’s Guildmaster, Alma the daughter of a highly respected Artificer, Laurel the daughter of a talented Healer at Healers’ Collegium, and Arville’s father was the Chief of the Watchhouse that covered the part of Haven that contained many of the most expensive mansions. He was the Chief of that Watchhouse for good reason; their family owned one of those mansions, and he could be counted on to be diplomatic where the feelings of the rich and highborn were concerned.
As a result of living on the sides of the Hill, once Arville, Rod, Alma, and Laurel were out of the nursery, their parents had all taken advantage of their rank or wealth to have their children educated at the Palace, at the school that gave Healer, Bard, and Herald Trainees their basic educations. They were the only four of the same age who were not Trainees, and while that fact alone wouldn’t necessarily have meant much, somehow they’d become inseparable. No one could have been prouder of his friends than Arville on the day when three Companions turned up over the course of a single day and Chose first Alma, then Rod, then Laurel—
Although he’d gone down to the river after congratulating them to bawl his eyes out. Not because he was envious but because it meant he’d be left behind while they went on to become Heralds, their new lives taking them far away from him.
And no one was more surprised than Arville when his own Companion, Pelas, had tracked him down there and assured him that no, he wasn’t about to be abandoned and, yes, he was never going to be alone again.
So he and his best friends in the entire world had been able to stick together through training. Then, instead of being broken up for their Journeyman Circuit, because the Heralds had been so short-handed for mentors, they’d all been assigned to Herald Elyn.
Arville sighed. Everything had to come to an end, of course. And once they passed their Journeyman Year . . . well, there was no way they were going to all be assigned together. It was rare for two Heralds to take the same Circuit. Unheard of for three. Four? Well, the only time there were four Heralds together was on the battlefield.
:You’re still not alone, you know,: Pelas reminded him kindly, trotting up alongside the caravan. :You not only have me, you have Ryu.:
As if he had sensed his name being mentioned, the kyree, Ryu, bounded back fr
om where he’d been scouting ahead, causing both horses to snort. “Rall rear!” the kyree told him. “I round a rood ramping rot!”
Arville cheered up a little. Ryu had a knack for not only finding “good camping spots” but ones that were safe from predators, scavengers, and unexpected problems. He’d stopped counting the number of times Ryu had picked a place that was near water yet above the waterline in a flash flood. Or the ones where the tree they’d parked under provided shelter from a blizzard rather than coming down on top of them.
The other three were off on Circuits where they were doing things the way Heralds normally did—staying at Waystations. But there were no Waystations on Arville’s Circuit; because of Ryu, he’d been given one that skirted the edge of the Pelagir Hills. These lands that had only recently elected to join Valdemar were so newly acquired that they didn’t have Waystations yet. In fact, they barely had roads. So Arville had been given the sole use of the six-person traveler’s caravan that Rod’s father had given to the Heralds when all four of them had gone off on that Journeyman’s Circuit.
Repainted, of course. Arville missed the way it used to look—sky blue painted with flowers. But he supposed it was probably just as well that it had been sanded to bare wood and was now the regulation Herald’s White. Besides, white reflected heat now, in the summer, and would blend in with the snow in the winter, giving him camouflage of a sort.
“You should be really comfortable,” Elyn had said as she helped him load the considerable amount of supplies he would need, given there were no Waystations. Four of the six bunks had had their mattresses removed and had been turned into storage units, holding bags of grain for the horses and Pelas and food for him. And, he supposed, he probably was going to be more comfortable than the others. The caravan had a little heavy iron stove he could cook over, which would also keep it warm in winter; he just needed to bank the fire before he started each day’s journey, saving him the tedium of starting a new one every night. The caravan would not have to be cleaned or have insects smoked out before he could use it, either—Waystations were supposed to be kept in readiness for a Herald at all times, but not every village kept that end of their bargain very well. He already knew the roof was sound and there were no drafts. But he would have traded every bit of that comfort to have just one of the others along.
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