The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  He rolled the cinch-belt, folded the blanket, and stuffed both into the straps of his pack. With a sigh for his poor feet, he hitched the lute strap a little higher on his shoulder, and headed toward the city gates of Highjorune.

  The road was dusty, and before he reached the gates he looked as if he’d been afoot all day. He joined the slow, shuffling line of travelers and workers returning from the farms, warehouses, and some of the dirtier manufactories that lay outside the city walls. Farmworkers, mostly; most folk owning farms within easy walking distance of Highjorune lived within the city walls, as did their hirelings, a cautious holdover from the days when Mavelan attacks out of Baires penetrated as far as the throne city. The eyes of the guard at the gate flickered over him; noted the lute, the threadbare, starveling aspect, and the lack of weaponry, and dismissed him, all in a breath. Minstrel Valdir was not worth noting, which made minstrel Valdir very happy indeed.

  Well, the first thing a hungry minstrel looks for is work, and Valdir was no exception to that rule. He found himself a sheltered corner out of the traffic, and began to assess his surroundings.

  The good corners were all taken, by a couple of beggars, a juggler, and a man with a dancing dog. He shook his head, as if to himself. Nothing for him here, so close to the gates. He was going to need a native guide.

  He loitered about the gate, waiting patiently for the guard to change. He put his hat out, got the lute in tune, and played a little, but he really didn’t expect much patronage in this out-of-the-way nook. He actually drew a few loiterers, much to his own amazement. To his further amazement, said loiterers had money. By the time the relief-guard arrived with torches to install in the holders on either side of the gate, he’d actually collected enough coppers for a meager supper.

  He had something more than a turnip and stale breadcrust on his mind, however. It was getting chilly; his nose was cold, and his patched cloak was doing very little to keep out the bite in the air. He chose one of the guards to follow, a man who looked as if he ate and drank well, and had money in his pocket; he slung the lute back over his shoulder, and sauntered along after him at a discreet distance.

  It was possible, of course, that the man was married—but he was unranked, and young, and that made it unlikely. There was an old saying to the effect that, while higher-ranked officers had to be married, anyone beneath the rank of sergeant was asking for trouble if he chose matrimonial bonds. “Privates can’t marry, sergeants may marry, captains must marry.” Valdir had noticed that, no matter the place or the structure of the armed force, that old saying tended to hold true.

  So, that being the case, an unranked man was likely to find himself a nice little inn or taphouse to haunt. And establishments of the sort he would frequent would tend to cater to his kind. They would have other entertainments as well—and they were frequently run by women. Valdir had traded off his looks to get himself a corner in more than one such establishment.

  The man he was following turned a corner ahead of him, and when Valdir turned the same corner, he knew he’d come to the right street. Every third building seemed to be an alehouse of one sort or another; it was brightly lit, and women of problematical age and negotiable virtue had set up shop—as it were—beneath each and every one of the brightly burning torches and lanterns. Valdir grinned, and proceeded to see what he could do about giving those coppers in his purse some company.

  The first inn he stuck his nose into was not what he was looking for. It was all too clearly a place that catered to appetites other than hunger and thirst. The second was perfect—but it had a musician of its own, an older man who glared at him over the neck of his gittern in such a way as left no doubt in Valdir’ mind that he intended to keep his cozy little berth. The third had dancers, and plainly had no need of him, not given the abandon with which the young ladies were shedding the scarves that were their principle items of clothing. The fourth and fifth were run by men; Valdir approached them anyway, but the owner of the fourth was a minstrel himself, and the owner of the fifth preferred his customers with cash to spare to spend it in the dice and card games in the back room. The sixth was—regrettable. The smell drove him out faster than he’d gone in. But the seventh—the seventh had possibilities.

  The Inn of the Green Man it was called; it was shabby, but relatively clean. The common stew in a pot over the fire smelled edible and as if it had more than a passing acquaintance with meat, though it was probably best not to ask what species. It was populated, but not overcrowded, and brightly lit with tallow dips and oil lamps, which would discourage pickpockets and cutpurses. The serving wenches—whose other properties were also, evidently, for sale—were also relatively clean. They weren’t fabulous beauties, and most of them weren’t in the first bloom of youth, but they were clean.

  There was a good crowd, though the place wasn’t exactly full. And Valdir spotted his guide here as well, which was a good omen.

  Valdir stuck a little more than his nose in the door, and managed to get the attention of one of the serving wenches. “Might I have a word with the owner?” he asked, diffidently.

  “Kitchen,” said the hard-faced girl, and gave him a second look. He contrived to appear starving and helpless, and she softened, just a little. “Back door,” she ordered. “Best warn you, Bel don’t much like your kind. Last songbird we had, run off with her best girl.”

  “Thank you, lady,” Valdir said humbly. She snorted, and went back to table-tending.

  Valdir had to make his way halfway down the block before he could find an accessway to the alley. He caught a couple of young toughs eyeing him with speculation, but his threadbare state evidently convinced them that he didn’t have much to steal—

  That, and the insidious little voice in their heads that said, Not worth bothering with. He doesn’t have anything worth the scuffle.

  The alley reeked, and not just of garbage, and he was just as glad that he hadn’t eaten since morning. He risked a mage-light, so that he could avoid stepping in anything—and when it became evident that there were places he couldn’t do that, he risked a little more magic to give him a clean spot or two to use as stepping stones.

  Kind of funny, he thought, stretching carefully over a puddle of stale urine. It was because I couldn’t face situations like this that I never ran away to become a minstrel. And now, here I am—enacting one of my own nightmares. Funny.

  He finally found the back door of The Green Man and pushed it open. The kitchen, also, was relatively clean, but he didn’t get to see much of it, because a giantess blocked his view almost immediately.

  If she was less than six feet tall, Valdir would have been surprised. The sleeves of her sweat-stained linen shirt were rolled up almost to the shoulder, leaving bare arms of corded muscle Jervis would have envied. She wore breeches rather than skirts, which may have been a practical consideration, since enough materials to make her a skirt would have made a considerable dent in a lean clothing budget. Her graying brown hair was cut shorter than Valdir’s. And no one would ever notice her face—not when confronted with the scar that ran from left temple to right jawbone.

  “An’ what d’you want?” she asked, her voice a dangerous-sounding growl.

  “The—the usual,” faltered Valdir. “A place, milady . . . a place for a poor songster. . . .”

  “A place. Food and drink and a place to sleep in return for some share of whatever paltry coppers ye manage to garner,” the woman rumbled disgustedly. “Aye, and a chance t’ run off with one o’ me girls when me back’s turned. Not likely, boy. And ye’d better find yerself somewhere else t’ caterwaul; there ain’t an inn on th’ Row that needs a rhymester.”

  Valdir made his eyes large and sad, and plucked at the woman’s sleeve as she turned away. “My lady, please—” he begged shamelessly. “I’m new-come, with scarce enough coppers to buy a crust. I pledge you, lady, I would treat your other ladies as sisters.”

 
She rounded on him. “Oh, ye would, would you? Gull someone else! If ye’re new-come, then get ye new-gone!”

  “Lady,” he whimpered, ducking her threatened blow. “Lady, I swear—lady—I’m—” He let his voice sink to a low, half-shamed whisper. “—lady, your maids are safe with me! More than safe—I’m—shaych. There are few places open for such as I—”

  She stared, she gaped, and then she grinned. “’Struth! Ye could be at that, that pretty face an’ all! Shaych! I like that!” She propelled him into the kitchen with a hand like a slab of bacon. “All right, I give ye a chance! Two meals an’ a place on th’ floor for half yer takin’s.”

  He knew he had to put up at least the appearance of bargaining—but not much, or he’d cast doubt on his disguise. “Three meals,” he said, desperately, “and a quarter.”

  She glared at him. “Ye try me,” she said warningly. “Ye try me temper, pretty boy. Three an’ half.”

  “Three and half,” he agreed, timidly.

  “Done. An’ don’t think t’ cheat me; me girls be checkin’ ye right regular. Now—list. I got armsmen here, mostly. I want lively stuff, things as put ’em in mind that me girls serve more’n ale. None of yer long-winded ballads, nor sticky love songs, nor yet nothin’ melancholy. Not less’n they asks for it. An’ if it be melancholy, ye make ’em cry, ye hear? Make ’em cry so’s me girls an’ me drink can give ’em a bit ’o comfort. Got that?”

  “Aye, lady,” he whispered.

  “Don’t ye go lookin’ fer a bedmate ’mongst them lads, neither. They wants that, there’s the Page, an’ that’s where they go. We got us agreements on the Row. I don’ sell boys, an’ I don’ let in streetboys; the Page don’ sell girls.”

  “Aye, lady.”

  “Ye start yer plunkin’ at sundown when I open, an’ ye finish when I close. Rest of th’ time’s yer own. Get yer meals in th’ kitchen, sleep in th’ common room after closin’.”

  “Aye, lady.”

  “Now—stick yer pack over in that corner, so’s I know ye ain’t gonna run off, an’ get out there.”

  He shed pack and cloak under her critical eye, and tucked both away in the chimney corner. He took with him only his lute and his hat, and hurried off into the common room, with her eyes burning holes in his back.

  • • •

  She was in a slightly better mood when she closed up near dawn. Certainly she was mollified by the nice stack of copper coins she’d earned from his efforts. That it was roughly twice the value of the meals she’d be feeding him probably contributed to that good humor. That no less than three of the prettiest of her “girls” had propositioned him and been turned down probably didn’t hurt.

  She was pleased enough that she had a thin straw pallet brought down out of the attic so that he wouldn’t be sleeping on the floor. He would be sharing the common room with an ancient gaffer who served as the potboy, and the two utterly silent kitchen helpers of indeterminate age and sex. Her order to all four of them to strip and wash at the kitchen pump relieved him a bit; he wasn’t looking for comfort, but he had hoped to avoid fleas and lice. When the washing was over, he was fairly certain that the kitchen helpers were girls, but their ages were still a mystery.

  When Bel left, she took the light with her, leaving them to arrange themselves in the dark. Valdir curled up on his lumpy pallet, wrapped in his cloak and the blanket that still smelled faintly of Yfandes, and sighed.

  :Beloved?: He sent his thought-tendril questing out into the gray light of early dawn after her.

  :Here. Are you established?:

  :Fairly well. Valdir’s seen worse. At least I won’t be poisoned by the food. What about you?:

  :I have shelter.:

  :Good.: He yawned. :This is strictly an after-dark establishment; if I go roaming in the late morning and early afternoon, I should find out a few things.:

  :I wish that I could help,: she replied wistfully.

  :So do I. Good night, dearheart. I can’t keep awake anymore.:

  :Sleep well.:

  One thing more, though, before he slept. A subtle, and very well camouflaged tap into the nearest current of mage-power. He needed it; the tiny trickle he would take would likely not be noticed by anyone unless they were checking the streams inch by inch. It wouldn’t replenish his reserves immediately, but over a few days it would. It was a pity he could only do this while meditating or sleeping. It was an even greater pity that he couldn’t just tap straight in as he had the night he’d rescued Tashir; he’d be at full power in moments if he could do that.

  But that would tell Lord Vedric Mavelan that there was another mage here.

  And if it comes to that, I’ d rather surprise him.

  He’d intended to try and think out some of his other problems, but it had been a full day since he’d last slept, and the walking he’d done had tired him out more than he realized. He started to try and pick over his automatic reactions to Bel’s “girls”; had he led them on, without intending to? Had he been flirting with them, knowing deep down that he was going to turn them down and enjoying the hold his good looks gave over them? It was getting so that nothing was simple anymore.

  But before he could do more than worry around the edges of things, his exhaustion caught up with him.

  He slept.

  CHAPTER 10

  “BOY?”

  The harsh whisper in the dark startled him out of unrestful sleep; it jerked him into full awareness, dry-mouthed, heart pounding.

  “Boy, be ye awake?”

  “Yes,” Valdir replied. I am now, anyway.

  Hot, onion-laden breath near his elbow. “Lissen, boy, ye needs warnin’. The reason this place don’ prosper. Bel drinks up th’ profit.”

  Valdir calmed his heart, nodded to himself. That explained a lot. “I’d wondered,” he whispered back.

  “She be at the keg in ’er room right now. Come mornin’ she’ll be up wi’ a temper like a spring bear. She won’t go hittin’ on th’ girls, not them as makes her profit—but me an’ Tay an’ Ri be fair game. An’ now you. Ye take my meanin’?”

  “I think so.”

  “Don’ doubt me. An’ don’ go thinkin’ ye got anywhere’s else. Ev’ry inn on th’ Row’s got its singster or dancer. Bel’s the only one did wi’out. That be ’cause she don’t care for ye singsters, an’ no dancin’ girl’ll stay where the profits be so lean. How long ye plan on stayin’?”

  Valdir was profoundly grateful that he was not locked into this life. “I hadn’t thought I’d be here long. I really sort of thought I’d look for a place at the Great Houses or the Palace,” he began timidly. “I—used to be with a House. They mostly keep at least one minstrel, and I figure the Palace must use—”

  The old man choked with laughter, and then broke into a fit of terrible coughing. Valdir acted as would be expected. “I’m not that bad!” he sputtered indignantly. “I’m just—out of luck, lately.”

  The old man convulsed again. “Outa more’n luck. First off, there ain’t no Great Houses in the city. They all be outside the walls. Second, the Remoerdis Family’s dead. Ain’t nobody in th’ Palace but ghosts.”

  Valdir gasped, and let the old gaffer tell the tale as he pleased. It was amazingly consistent with what Lores had told him, save only that the Herald who’d carried off Tashir had been seven feet tall, cut down a dozen guards, and rode away on a fanged white demon. “An’ third thing,” the rheumy voice continued, “they wouldn’t have anyone next or nigh the palace as wasn’t blood kin; even the servants be blood kin on the backside. So even if they’d been alive an’ ye’d been t’ see, they’d not ’ave took ye.”

  “Why?” Valdir asked, bewildered. “That doesn’t make any sense! What does being blood relation have to do with serving—or talent?”

  The old man coughed again. “Damn if I know. Been that way f’rever. Anyway, I’m tellin’ y
e, if ye wanta keep that purty face purty, save yer coppers an’ get outa here soon as ye can; afore the snow flies be best. Otherwise ol’ Bel likely to start seein’ how far she can push ye. I’ve warned ye, now I’m goin’ t’ sleep.” And not another word could Valdir get out of him.

  • • •

  He found out how right the warning was the next day, when Bel stumbled down the stairs, red-eyed and touchy, smelling like a brewery. She started in on the two kitchen girls, looking for excuses to punish one of them. She found plenty; the girls sported a black eye each before she was through with them.

  Valdir managed to stay out of her way long enough to get his pack and bed stowed safely and his lute placed beside the door. But then—then he got an unexpected and altogether unpleasant shock. Bel tried—him. First flirting, then, when that brought no result, threatening.

  She disgusted and frightened him, and he knew he dared not retaliate in any way. Instead he had to stand and take her pawing, while his skin crawled and his stomach churned, trying not to show anything except his very real and growing fear of her. She finally convinced herself that she wasn’t going to get any pleasure out of him in that way, so she chose another.

  In the end he escaped with no worse than a darkening bruise on his cheekbone where she’d backhanded him into a wall—without his promised breakfast or lunch, and not willing to endure either more of her clumsy caresses or her brutality to get it. He flew out the door as soon as she unlocked it, resolving not to return until nightfall and the time appointed for him to perform. He paused long enough in his flight to snatch up his lute; he would not leave the means of his livelihood unguarded, and anyway, there might be the chance of making a few coins on the street as he had last night. Enough, maybe, to feed him.

  Herald Vanyel would not have tolerated that treatment, but Herald Vanyel was far, far away. There was only poor, timid Valdir, fallen indeed on bad luck, scrawny, fearful, and no little desperate.