Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Her business took her to the stables, where, in the dying light, the orange flicker of lamps could be seen through the slats of the door. That's odd, she thought, as she lifted her own lamp a little higher. It wasn't completely dark by any means—but the stables tended to need a little light regardless of the time of day—and she shone that light into the warm shadows.

  Carris was kneeling at the feet of a pinto mare, gently probing her knees. She nickered and nudged him, and he nearly fell over as he spun quickly to face Kelsey.

  "What are you doing here?" they said in unison.

  Then Carris smiled. "You know, lass," he said, although she'd passed the age of "lassdom" five years back, "you should consider a career in His Majesty's army. You've the makings of a fine regimental sergeant."

  "Thanks," she replied, feeling that he meant to tease her, but not seeing anything in his words that could be viewed as perjorative. "You haven't answered my question."

  He chuckled, and it added wrinkles to his eyes and mouth that suggested he often laughed. "No, lass, I haven't. What do you think of her?"

  "Of—" She looked at the horse, and then realized that it wasn't. A horse. "That's your Companion."

  "If she forgives me for the indignity and the desertion, then, yes, she is."

  "Why—why have you done that?" She lowered her lamp, as if to offer the Companion a little more privacy. Her tone made it clear that she thought it almost sacrilegious.

  "Don't you start as well," Carris said, mock severely. "I've done it," he added, his voice suddenly much more serious, "because I've a message that must be delivered—and I can't take her with me, but to leave her here, as an obvious Companion, is to risk her life."

  Kelsey let the seconds tick back while she figured out exactly what he meant. Then she lifted the lamp again. "Are you crazy?" she said at last. "You can't ride with your arm like that and your ribs broken—you'll pierce your lungs for certain!"

  The Companion bobbed her lovely head up and down almost vigorously.

  "Don't start," Carris said again. "We've already covered that ground, and I've made my decision. She knows it's the right one." He stood slowly, but winced with pain just the same as if he'd jumped up. "Kelsey, you've done as much as any girl can to help me—but I've one more favor to ask of you."

  "W-what?"

  "I want you to take care of her."

  "Of... her?"

  "My Companion, yes," he replied. "Her name is Arana." He waited for her to answer, and after five minutes had passed, he said, "Kelsey?"

  She couldn't even speak. Instead, she walked past him, holding the lamp as if it were a shield. She approached the dyed Companion, met her eyes, and held them for a long time. Finally, she remembered that she wasn't alone, and had the grace to blush.

  "I meant to tell you that dinner's been laid out for you. It's probably cold, but you should still get to it while you can."

  "Kelsey?"

  "I'll have to think about it," she replied, not taking her eyes off of Carris' Companion.

  That night, with the moon at half-mast, it was dark enough that she stubbed her toes twice on the path to the stable. The lamp that she held was turned down as low as possible—she didn't want to attract attention from the field mice and the rats.

  She wanted to look at Arana again, without Carris intruding upon the privacy of her old dreams and her old desires. Could she watch the Companion. Could she take care of her. Ha!

  She opened the doors, paused as the smells of the hay and the horse scent hit her nostrils, and made her way in. Usually Companions weren't stabled like this—but Carris had insisted that Arana be as horselike as possible.

  "Does she like sugar?"

  Carris had laughed. "As much as a real horse."

  She hadn't snuck into stables since she was child, but she'd lost none of her old instincts. She made her way, unerringly, to Arana's stall.

  She wasn't particularly surprised to find Arana waiting for her. "Hello," she said softly. The Companion, as expected, didn't answer. A pang of disappointment, like a slightly off-key chord, rippled through her and vanished. "I'm Kelsey."

  Arana lifted her head and nodded.

  "I suppose you've met a lot of people like me. I—I always wanted to be a Herald. I've always prayed that one day, a Companion would Choose me. It's never happened," she added ruefully. "And I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me why."

  Arana put her head over the stall's door and let Kelsey scratch her. It was easier than scratching a normal horse; the Companion seemed to be more sensitive. "Doesn't matter. Carris wants me to stay here, with you, while he does some fool thing on his own, injured, without anyone to look after his back. What do you think of that?"

  Arana said absolutely nothing, but she became completely still. Kelsey shook her head and lowered the lamp. "That's what I thought as well. Here. I brought you some sugar."

  "Where do you think you're going?" Carris, dressed like a well-to-do villager, frowned as Kelsey let her backpack slide off her shoulders to land on the ground with a thump.

  "Talked it out with Torvan," she replied, around her last mouthful of bread and cheese, "and he says it's a go." She swallowed, wiped her hands on her pants, rolled her hair into its familiar bun, and shoved her coin bag into the inner reaches of her shirt.

  "What's a go?" Carris asked, suspicion giving him an aura of unease that made Kelsey want to laugh out loud.

  "I'm going with you, Carris." She checked her long dagger, and then picked up her wooden bat. Made sure she had a hat, and a scarf to keep it attached to her head.

  "That's preposterous," he replied. "You are doing no such thing."

  She shrugged. "Whatever you say."

  "Kelsey—"

  "Look—what did you think you were going to do? Dress like that, but pick up a fast and fancy horse that'll take you to the capital?"

  He looked taken aback.

  "You'll stand out like a scarecrow. You're afraid that someone following you would recognize Arana, and if that's the case, you'll be recognized if you travel as you'd planned. Trust me."

  "I wasn't aware that you'd studied the arts of subterfuge. You certainly haven't mastered the art of subtlety."

  "Ho ho ho." She bent down and picked up her pack; slung it over one shoulder, and then bent down for his. "Don't argue with me," she said, not even bothering to look up. "I'll take the packs. You take your arm and your ribs. Oh, damn."

  "What?"

  "I almost forgot."

  "What?"

  "The hair. It has to go."

  Carris was in a decidedly less cheerful mood when they finally departed the inn. "Look, Kelsey," he said tersely. "You may not believe this, but that hair was my single vanity."

  "A man your age shouldn't be beholden to a single vanity," she replied sweetly. "Now come on. You've come at a good time—I've a friend who guards one of the caravan routes, and they're always looking for new hands."

  "As a caravan guard in this territory?" Carris raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that with the upsurge in banditry lately, he's just asking for trouble?"

  Something about the way he said the word "banditry" caught her attention; she pursued it like a cat does a mouse. "What do you know about the bandit problems?"

  He didn't reply.

  "This have something to do with the message you need to deliver?"

  He nodded, but no matter how she pressed him, he would say nothing else.

  Well, it's King's business, not mine, Kelsey thought. And probably better that I don't know. She knew enough, after all, to know that as a Herald he was trustworthy, and that anyone who tried to kill him was as much the King's enemy—and therefore her own—as a stranger could be. Still, she felt a twinge of envy; she knew that were she a Herald, they'd talk openly of their mission—like equals. Comrades.

  As if he could read her thoughts—and it was rumored that some Heralds could—he said, "It isn't that I don't trust you, Kelsey."

  "Don't bother with explana
tions. I can come up with a dozen good ones on your behalf and you don't even have to open your mouth." She paused, and then stopped. "You can wield that thing, can't you?"

  "Both of them, yes," he replied, smiling.

  "Good."

  "What did you intend as a weapon?"

  "This." She pulled her bat out of her pack and swung it in a wide circle. "I call it a club."

  "You're going to sign on as a caravan guard wielding a club?"

  "You've never seen me wield a club before," she assured him. Then she laughed. "You should see your face. Yes, I intend to sign on, but I'll probably do it as cook or a handler. If a person's willing and able to work, there are always jobs on the trade routes. Especially now." She started to say something else, and then stopped. "Are you in pain?"

  "Yes," he said, but the word was so soft it was a whisper.

  She studied his pale face for a moment and then grimaced. The death of his friend wasn't real for him yet, but in bits and pieces it was becoming that way. Kelsey was almost glad that she wouldn't be with him when he finally completed his mission—because she was certain that when he did, he'd collapse with grief and guilt.

  She'd seen enough hurt men and women come through Torvan's place to know the look of it.

  "That's the life of a Herald, dear," her grandmother would tell her.

  "I know," she told her grandmother's memory. "But I want it just the same."

  David Fruitman had the look of a barbarian to him. His face was never closely shaven, but never full-bearded, his brown hair was wavy—almost scruffy—and long, and his carriage gave the impression not only of size, but of the ability to use the strength that came with it to good advantage.

  Kelsey waved and shouted to catch his attention.

  When he saw her, he rolled his eyes. "What, you again?"

  Carris hung back a bit, unsure of the larger man's reception, but Kelsey bounded in, slapped him hard on the upper arm, and then dropped the two packs she carried to give him a bear hug. She called him something that was best left in the tavern among friends who had had far too much to drink, and then swung him around.

  "Carris, get your backside up here. David, this is Carris. Carris, this is David. He's what passes for a guard captain around here."

  David looked at Carris, raised an eyebrow, and then looked down at Kelsey. "There's a problem, Kelse," he said.

  "What?"

  "His arm's broken."

  "So? It's not his sword arm."

  Carris and David exchanged raised brows. "Shall I explain, or shall you?" Carris said.

  "You do it. I'm not getting enough danger pay as is."

  "Very funny, both of you. David—can I talk to you in private for a minute or two?"

  "Is this like last time's private—where you shouted loudly enough that this half of the caravan lost most of their hearing for the next two weeks?"

  "Very funny." She scowled, grabbed his arm, grabbed her packs, and nodded frantic directions to Carris. It all came together somehow, and they made their way to the wagon that David called home while he was recruiting.

  "Well?"

  "Carris is a Herald," she said, dispensing with pretense and bluster—although the latter was hard to get rid of. "His partner's dead, his Companion's injured, and he's got a message that he's got to get to the capital as fast as possible. He can't ride—don't argue with me, Carris, you heard what the doctor said—and he's being hunted."

  "Hunted by who?"

  "He can't say."

  "I can't hire him, then."

  "David—he's a Herald."

  "That doesn't mean the same thing to me as it means to you," David replied. "Look—the people who hunt the type of guards I hire are cutthroats that I know how to deal with. The people who hunt a Herald..."

  "David!" She reached out, grabbed the front of his surcoat, bunched it into two fists and pulled. Even Carris recoiled slightly at the intensity of her tone. "You-are-going-to-hire-us-both."

  He raised a brow, not in the least put out. "Or?"

  "Or I will tell Sharra about the time that—"

  He lifted both of his hands in mock surrender, and than his expression grew graver. "Is it that important, Kelse?"

  "More. Trust me. We need you."

  "All right. Let go of my surcoat and pray that the entire encampment didn't just hear that. I'll take Carris on—but we've got to strap a shield to that shoulder."

  "Can't you just say he was injured in the line of duty?"

  "Sure. But who's going to ask me? Most of the guards here are the same as I started with, and they'll know he's a stranger if they're asked. We've hired five men here, and he'll just be another one of those—but he's got to look the part, even if he's not going to act it. Clear?"

  She said something extremely rude. "Yes. Clear."

  "Good."

  "Captain?" Carris said softly.

  "What?"

  "Thank you."

  "Don't. Thank her. I owe her, and it's about time she started calling in her debt."

  "I hope you appreciate this," Kelsey said to Carris as they set up their tents. Her hands were stiff and chapped, and she was busy nursing a blister caused by peeling carrots and potatoes for a small army. When he didn't answer, she looked across the fire.

  "What's wrong?"

  "It's Arana," he replied at last, weighing his words. "You travel for this long with a—a very dear friend, and you really notice when she's gone."

  "You aren't used to being separated?"

  "No. I'm used to being able to hear her no matter where I am." He was quiet, and she let the silence stretch between them, wondering when he would break it. Fifteen minutes later, she realized he wasn't going to.

  "Is it everything they say it is?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Being a Herald. Having a Companion. Is it everything it's cracked up to be?"

  He smiled. "It's harder than I ever imagined," he replied, leaning back on his elbows, and then wincing and shifting his weight rapidly. "And it's the most rewarding thing I could ever dream of doing." He laughed, and the laugh was self-deprecating. "It wasn't what I'd intended to do with my life—and both of my parents are still rather upset about it, since it significantly shifts the family hierarchy."

  "Do you know why you were Chosen?"

  "Me?" He laughed again. "No. If I had to Choose, I'd be the last person I'd ask to defend the kingdom with his life." He sobered suddenly. Rose. "Kelsey, I don't know how to thank you for everything you've done, and I know that leaving you to the campfire alone isn't the way to start."

  She waved him off. "Everyone needs a little space for grief," she told him firmly. "Even a Herald. Especially a Herald."

  But after he was gone, she stared at the fire pensively. By his own admission he'd done nothing to be considered a worthy candidate—why had he become a Herald? Why had he been Chosen? Don't start, Kelsey, she told herself sternly, or you'll be up at it all night.

  "You look awful," David said, as he ducked a flying handful of potato rinds.

  "I didn't sleep very well," she replied. "Are you here to annoy me, or should I just assume that you already have?"

  He laughed. "I wanted to see how you were faring. The caravan's got a few extra mouths this time round; if I was going to choose KP, I wouldn't have done it for this stretch of the route."

  "Thanks for the warning," she said, and heaved another handful of rinds. Then she wiped her hands on her trousers, set her knife aside, and stood. "Why is the caravan so bloody big this time?"

  "It's well guarded," David replied, lowering his voice. "Well guarded. We've done our buying for the season, and we're doing our damned best to protect our investment."

  "How bad has it been? We'd heard rumors that—"

  "It's been bad." His face lost all traces of its normal good humor. "If you hadn't insisted, Kelse, I wouldn't have taken your friend on. There's a very good chance he'll get to see action whether he's up to it or not."

  "Oh." She blew a strand
of dark hair out of her eyes. "Is there some sort of drill?"

  "Meaning?"

  "What should the noncombatants do if the caravan is attacked?" She waited for a minute. "Look, stop staring at me as if I've grown an extra head and answer my question."

  "Well," he replied, scratching his jaw, "if I were in that position, I'd probably hide under the wagons."

  Great. "If I'd wanted an answer that unreal, I'd have asked a Bard." She picked up her knife and went back to potatoes, carrots, and onions. Onions. That was the other thing she was going to have to find a way around.

  Carris took to taking it easy about as well as a duck takes to fire. He was grim-faced and impatient, and he watched the road and the surrounding wooded hills like a starving hawk. David had decided that the best watch for Carris was the night watch; under the cover of shadow and orange firelight, he could pass for a reasonably whole guard. He carried his sword and his bow—although Kelsey pointed out time and again that the bow was so useless it was just added encumbrance—and wore a shield that had been strapped to his front as well as possible given the circumstances.

  What he did not do well was blend in with the rest of the guards. It was his language, Kelsey reflected, as she listened to him speak. He didn't have the right cadence for someone who had fallen into the life of a caravan guard. Never mind cadence, she thought, as she dove into the middle of a conversation and pulled him out—whole—he didn't have the vocabulary, the tone, the posture. He did, having been on the road without being able to shave himself, have the right look.

  "Stop being so nervous," she said, catching his good arm in hers and wandering slightly away from the front of the caravan.

  "Kelsey, do you know what this caravan is carrying?"

  "Nope. And I don't want to."

  "Well, I do. We're going to see action, and I can't afford to see it and not escape it alive. We've lost four Heralds to this investigation, not including Lyris, and we'll lose more if I don't get word back."

  "We'll get word back," she said, assuring him. But she felt a twinge of unease when she finally left him. Dammit, he's even got me spooked. She went to her pack, found her bat, hooked it under her left arm, and walked quickly back to her place among the cook's staff.