Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  The young man pulled off his helm, showing that his dark hair had gone black with his sweat. "Enough, Weaponsmaster," he admitted. "No matter what else you do, please make sure this fellow has a candlemark or so free every couple of days so I have someone to bout with from now on. I'm getting soft, and by the Havens, it shows." He actually smiled briefly at Alberich.

  "I'll do that," the old man said with immense satisfaction. "It's about time I found someone to put you on your mettle." He turned to Alberich as the young man dragged himself toward the storage lockers to divest himself of his armor. "Well!" he barked. "Are you too tired for more work?"

  Whatever was in this man's mind, Alberich was determined not to disappoint him. "No," he said shortly, then added, "sir."

  "Good. Jadus, you can unlock the door. Trainee, we'll see how you are with distance weapons."

  Ah. Alberich was already impressed with this Weaponsmaster; he had to assume the man had trained Kimel, and Kimel was good. Not quite as good as Alberich, but then his own Weaponsmasters had trained many boys that were good, but few as dedicated to their craft as Alberich. There were those that were naturals at the art of war, and Alberich was one of them—but being naturally good at something only took one to a certain point. It was dedication and practice that took one beyond that point. Or, as his own Weaponsmaster had said, "Genius will only take you to 'good.' Practice will take you to 'Master.'"

  Now, this Dethor was a Master; it showed not only in that he had trained Kimel, but how he was testing Alberich's level of stamina, strength, and expertise. The point here was that the Weaponsmaster had waited until Alberich was tired to test him at distance weapons, when his aim might be compromised by arms that shook with weariness, and eyes blurred with exhaustion. Clever. Very clever.

  Now, under the curious eyes of the youngsters as well as the critical eye of the old man, Alberich showed his mettle—with the longbow, with the shorter horse-bow, then finally with spear, javelin, ax, sling, and knife. He always hit the target—not always in the black, but he always hit the target. By now he had an audience of wide-eyed youngsters, ranging in age from child to young adult. It wasn't likely that they were in awe of his targeting skills; it wasn't as if he was putting missile after missile into the same spot. Presumably they were dazzled because they had never seen one man use so many different distance weapons before.

  :You're enjoying yourself,: Kantor remarked with pleasure, and to his surprise, Alberich realized that the Companion was right.

  :This—is what I do well,: he admitted. :I am not ashamed of doing it well.:

  :Did I suggest you should be?: Kantor retorted. :You are what you are: a warrior. Some must be warriors, that others may live in peace. You do not enjoy killing, but you are proud of your skill I see no difficulty with this.: A thoughtful pause. :Better that you should be proud of your skill. When need drives, you cannot hold back.:

  Sensible. Quite sensible. He placed a final knife in the center of the target, and turned to Jadus and Dethor. Jadus was looking at Dethor with an expression of expectation.

  Dethor was looking at Alberich. "Right," he said. "Karsite. What's the job of a Weaponsmaster?"

  "So that those he teaches, killed or injured are not," Alberich said instantly. And bluntly. "However, whatever works, so that learn, they do, and well. Shouts, scolds, b—" He paused. "Not beating, perhaps. Sometimes, gentle. Not often. Out in the world, there will no gentleness be. Better harshness to see here, and live, than softness, and die."

  "Na, these're none of your Karsite thugs. No beatings. But all else, aye, and treat 'em gentle only when they're little, scared sparrows. Gentle pats and cosseting—that's for them as will never need to fight for life." He turned a somewhat grim smile on Jadus, and the eyes of the children—the Trainees—were getting round and apprehensive. "Right. By the Havens, I've got one now, and who'd have thought it'd be soft-handed peace-minded Jadus who'd be the one to find him, realize what he was good for, and bring him to me?"

  Alberich was beginning to get the glimmer of an idea of what was up, and the Weaponsmaster's next words clinched it. Dethor turned to him. "Trainee Alberich, you're on notice. There'll be no riding circuit for you, and no riding internship. You'll be interning, starting now, with me, as the next Weaponsmaster. Call it—well, it's no apprenticeship, for you're nothing like an apprentice. Call it whatever you like; you're going to be a Trainee in name only."

  "But—the classes—" he managed, as the children looked even more apprehensive, if that was possible.

  Dethor flapped his hand, dismissing the entire curriculum of the Collegium as inconsequential. "Oh, you'll take 'em. You see to it, Jadus, but no more than three classes in a day, and I'd prefer one or two rather than three. And no housekeeping chores and no dormitory for him either—we'll have him out here, in my quarters, and he can start doing what I can't anymore. Kernos' bones, what you thought you'd be doing, putting a grown man in amongst a lot of boys, anyway—"

  "It's been done before," Jadus ventured.

  Dethor just snorted, and looked Alberich pointedly up and down—then at the children, who had put a careful space between himself and them.

  "Ah," Jadus said, and grimaced. As Alberich had expected, the Herald was utterly transparent when it came to his feelings and what he was thinking, and right now, he realized just how wary, even frightened, all those young Trainees might be of Alberich. "I suppose he's right, Alberich; I don't think you would fit in very well with the rest of the boys."

  "I think not," Alberich agreed quietly. Although he did not know this man Dethor—he knew the species. Another warrior. Someone who would think as he thought. As comfortable a Valdemaran to share living space with as he was likely to find.

  "Then have them fetch his things over. As of now, he's an Internee with classes. I know the rules as well as you, but rules are made to be broken, now and then. Just tell Talamir what I've done, Sendar will decree it, and there'll be an end to argument."

  :This is better than I had hoped for,: Kantor said, sounding pleased. :Dethor fought on the Border, you see. We weren't altogether certain what he'd think of you.:

  :Why didn't you ask his Companion?: Alberich asked.

  :Because Dethor doesn't have much consistency in the way of Mindspeech. Pahshen doesn't always know what he's thinking. The bond is there, and they do just fine, but when Dethor closes up—well, he's unreadable, and he's been completely unreadable where you are concerned.:

  Ah. That put a different complexion on things.

  "I'll see to it," Jadus said, and turned to look at the gaping children. "Shouldn't you be practicing?" he asked pointedly.

  They flushed and looked guilty, especially the eldest, and gathered up their equipment and went back to the archery field. Alberich followed Dethor back into the building.

  At the back wall was a door, half hidden in the paneling, the same door that Kimel, the man in the blue uniform, had come through. Alberich followed Dethor through that door as well, into a long and narrow room with seating and a wall of windows that looked out on a rather unprepossessing stretch of meadow and bushes.

  "Come in here, and I'll show you how to clean up," the old man said, waving him on. Apparently there was an entire suite of rooms here, behind the salle. Through another door, Alberich found Dethor waiting in a tiny room tiled floor-to-ceiling in white ceramic, holding a lit fireplace squib.

  "Take this, reach up, and light that," the old man said, pointing to a metal container that looked very like a candle with an enormously fat wick. Pipes led up through the ceiling, and also from the bottom of the drum across to a perforated disk suspended from the middle of the ceiling. "Then turn that spigot, and you'll get a warm rain shower out of that plate. There's a box of soap there, and I'll bring you a towel; by the time you're clean, Jadus will have brought your things here and I'll have a new uniform for you. Then we can talk."

  Then we can talk. Words both ominous and positive. This man had fought against Karse on the Border—but he
had just brought Alberich into his personal quarters, and he was going to talk.

  We are both warriors, he reminded himself. We speak a common language that has nothing to do with Valdemaran syntax and Karsite verbs.

  Alberich stripped off his sweat-sodden uniform and turned the spigot on the wall, and just as Dethor had said, a "rain" of warm water came down from the perforated plate, draining away through a grate in the floor. This was an infinitely faster way of getting clean than a bath. Not as luxurious, but much more efficient. There was a second door into this chamber, but for now, Alberich figured he could wait to discover what lay behind it.

  Dethor was as good as his word. By the time Alberich cautiously opened the door to the little room, there was a folded uniform and a towel in a pile beside it. He snuffed the contrivance that heated the water, then lost no time in toweling himself off and getting into a brand new uniform for the second time that day. It felt good to be clean, to have all his muscles aching—just a little—from the exertion. For the first time since he'd come here, he felt entirely like himself. He joined his new mentor in the sitting area, hair still damp.

  "Take a seat," the old man said. Alberich gingerly chose a chair facing his new mentor.

  "Now, before we start out, I want everything straight between us," said Dethor forthrightly. "I don't particularly like Karsites." He sucked in his lower lip. "Mind, it's the ones in charge I've got a bone to pick with. Your Sunpriests. Just the Karsite ones, mind; we've got a little sect of your lot on this side of the Border, and I've no quarrel with them."

  Alberich nodded, cautiously.

  "Now, you're a soldier. Reckon that mostly what you did was take orders. Question I've got for you is—just how much did you think about them orders when you got 'em?" Dethor gave him a sharp look.

  "Much," Alberich replied immediately, without even thinking about it very long. "Look you—my duty—to what it was? My God, and my people." He decided that he would leave his duty to Vkandis between himself and the God. "My people to protect. Not to the Fires to feed them. Not to bandits to leave them."

  "And if them priests had told you to attack us, you'd have done it?" Dethor persisted.

  Alberich could only shrug. "Then? You, Demon-Riders, lovers of demons, with witch-powers and witch-ways? Yes. A threat, I saw you."

  "Hmph. Honest, at least. Now?" Dethor asked.

  "Now—there, I am not. Here, I am." He shrugged. What was the point in asking such a question? Already he was an entirely different person from Captain Alberich of the Suns-guard. Tomorrow he might be a different person from today.

  Dethor sighed, with some exaggeration. "All I'm asking is, are you going to knife me in my sleep because I killed a baker's dozen of your folk and a couple of your Priests a while back?"

  Alberich gave Dethor the same answer he had given Alberich. "You, a soldier are. And your duty? To your King, and your people. This, I understand."

  And if he asked me about questioning orders, I would suspect he thought about his before he obeyed them....

  "Farmers, killed you?" he persisted. "Craftsmen?" He hunted for the word. Kantor helped.

  :Civilians.:

  "Civilians?"

  "Never," Dethor replied, with such matter-of-factness that Alberich couldn't doubt him. "Unless you count the priests."

  Alberich dismissed the Sunpriests out of hand. "Then, no quarrel have I with you."

  "Reckon you're ready to help me beat some skill into a pack of puppies that never saw blood?" Dethor asked, the wrinkles around his eyes relaxing, and a hint of ease creeping into his voice.

  Some of whom may grow up to slay more Karsites.... "A question," he asked, and picked his words with care. "The answer, on your honor, swear. Do you of Valdemar—do you make war, and unleash demons, my people upon?"

  "No!" Dethor said with such force that Alberich started back in his chair, his hand reaching automatically for a knife that wasn't there.

  "No," the Weaponsmaster repeated, without the heat. "I swear to you, on my honor, on my gods, on my life, we do nothing of the sort. We'll defend ourselves—and there's bandits along the Border that prey on both sides of it, as I assume you know well enough—but never once in my time have we even pursued an invading army past the Border once we reached it. You already know that what you call 'White Demons' are nothing but our Companions. If there are demons Preying on your people by night—" and a knowing glance told Alberich that this man knew that there were, "—then I say, look to your own priests. We don't have anything or anyone that calls up the likes of demons, and even if we did, we'd not set them on ordinary folk who just have the misfortune to live in the wrong place."

  Dethor's suggestion that Alberich look to the Sunpriests for those who let demons prowl the night was not unexpected—and it was true. This was a thought that had already passed through Alberich's mind, more than once. He nodded.

  And he thought of those fresh-faced youngsters at the archery field, how unless someone taught them all of the thousands of ways in which they could die and how to counter their opponents and save themselves—then they would die. For no more crime than serving their people, as he had. This man would not have taken him, a foreigner, to apprentice as his replacement, if he'd had any other choice. He could turn Dethor down, and have all those needless deaths on his own conscience. Or he could accept the position—

  —and accept that he was going to stay.

  :You are needed here,: Kantor said simply. :Perhaps only a handful of people even among the Heralds know this—but you are needed here. Whatever else comes, whether your God had a hand in bringing you here, whether or not He has further plans for you here, there is that. No one else can do what you can; Dethor has looked a long, long time for his replacement, and you are his last, best choice.:

  "Then—yes," he replied, answering both Dethor and Kantor. "Yes. Learn I will, and teach."

  "Then here's my hand on it." Dethor held out his sword-callused palm, and Alberich clasped it. A powerful and strong hand, that one had been; it was strong still, under the swollen joints and past the pain.

  "Now, let me show you your quarters." Dethor got up out of his chair; Alberich forbore to offer him a hand. There would be a time for that later. Right now, Dethor could manage, and as long as he could manage alone, he would want to. Alberich rose, and followed in the old man's footsteps.

  The quarters behind the salle turned out to be a series of interconnected rooms, with no space wasted on halls. This was a sitting room, primarily; the sun came in here on winter afternoons, which probably made it a good place for Dethor to sit and bask his bones. At the rear, it led into the "showering room" which had a cistern on the roof that fed both it and a privy on the other side of the room—which was where that second door led. On the other side of that was Dethor's bedroom, then a second room, which looked mostly unused, but which did have a bed and a wooden chest in it. Then storage grooms and an office, which led, in turn, back into the salle. If one followed a path around, it would be in the shape of a "u" with the two points of the letter representing the two doors into the salle.

  A pile of clothing and gear lay on the bed in the second room, which Alberich assumed was going to be his. Jadus worked quickly, it seemed. The arrangement suited him, actually. And comforted him. There would be no one sleeping between him and a direct line out of here. Oh, there were windows to climb out of, but that was awkward and had the potential to be very noisy.

  "This has always been laid out with the idea that the Weaponsmaster shares quarters with his Second," Dethor told him, then grinned evilly. "The Second's closer to the salle, so if there's a crisis in the middle of the night—?"

  "The Second, the one who answers, is," Alberich said with mock resignation. "Master."

  "Exactly. Just got one question for you. I have 'em bring my meals over from the Collegium—there's a fireplace in the sitting room where things can be kept hot. Wastes my time to be hauling myself over there and back, three times a day. But you—you m
ight be wanting to be around people more."

  It's too painful for him to be dragging himself back and forth. Alberich found it very easy to read between those lines. But—he's lonely. No, I won't desert him, not even for meals. "If you, my master and teacher will be here—then going there of what use is?" he asked logically. "A waste of my time. Asking questions, having advice, I could be. Besides, soldiers are we. Understand each other, we do."

  Was it his imagination, or did Dethor actually soften a bit? "You'll find that boy Kimel is another of our sort," he said. "Head of His Majesty's Personal Guard, that boy, and hard on himself. Always after someone to make him better and keener, but he just hasn't what's needed to be Weaponsmaster. Trained him myself, though."

  "Then, on himself, he would hard be." Alberich knew that much for certain. "Like master, like man, at home we say."

  "We say the same thing here," Dethor replied, and it seemed, with some content. "Not so different after all, in some things, at least."

  "No," Alberich agreed.

  "Right, I have a gaggle of youngsters coming in a moment. You get this room arranged to your liking, then come out and give me a hand with 'em. No time like the present to start." Once again, Dethor was all brisk business, and as he limped out, Alberich made haste to follow his orders.

  He made up the bed with the linens and blankets he found in the chest, and put his things away. Not that he had a great deal to put away—those uniforms, light ones for summer, heavier materials for winter, a cloak—some toiletries, which he was pleased enough to see. He took the opportunity to give his short-cut hair a good combing, thinking as he did so that he probably ought to let it grow out now. Longer hair seemed to be the fashion in Valdemar, and there was no use in looking more conspicuous than he already did.

  :You've decided to stay.: Kantor exuded satisfaction.

  :Yes.: He knew he had made up his mind that the so-called "trial" was over, probably the instant that he realized Dethor wanted him to train as a replacement Weaponsmaster. Maybe that was all it had really taken, the knowledge that they weren't going to make work for him, and fit him in somehow, but that there already was a place here that was crying out for someone like him. :Yes,: he repeated. :It seems I'm needed.: