Exile's Honor v(-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  "Dropping my packs—" she began.

  "But what if there is something in your packs that you've been entrusted with?" he countered. "What if it's in the winter, with no Waystations near? If you drop your packs, you won't have what you need to survive. It won't do you much good to escape from bandits only to freeze to death in a blizzard." He brooded over the idea for a moment, then the answer came to him. "I think we should add a bit of extra equipment specifically for you—packs and belt pouches that you're meant to throw away."

  "What?" she asked, "Stuffed with straw or the like?"

  He shook his head. "No, not that, actually. If you drop worthless decoys, it won't be long before bandits and brigands all know that the packs you drop are worthless, and they'll ignore them and go for you again. No, that hare won't run—there will be just enough in the decoys to satisfy an ambusher without making it look as if you're an especially juicy target, and to make certain that attackers chase the packs, and not you. And the same for belt pouches; from now on, you'll be carrying at least two small extras, both full of coppers, and if someone attacks you, you'll throw them in opposite directions, one to either side of your line of flight."

  She was happy enough about the planning, but visibly unhappy when he brought her back outside and put her in front of the obstacle course. "Run the course, then run it again," he told her mercilessly. "And keep running it until I tell you to stop. Running away isn't going to do you any good if you can't actually run any better than Dethor on a bad day."

  And he left her to it, with a faint feeling of having—for once—gotten the better of her. Irritating woman. Not that he didn't like her; she not only had the advantage of being one of the few people he could converse easily with in his own tongue, she was an interesting and lively conversationalist. And besides not being afraid of him or intimidated by him, he got the feeling that she respected him in a way that was quite flattering, when she wasn't trying to get the better of him. Why was it that she entered every conversation with the goal of somehow trying to win?

  Well, she could just work some of that out over the hurdles. Meanwhile, he had a class of young archers to put through their paces.

  «»

  When he told Dethor of his solution to the problem of Myste over dinner, the Weaponsmaster chuckled. "Good solution," Dethor replied. "A very good solution. But I hope it isn't one we need to use. I'd much rather that the Heraldic Circle can find a position for her that makes the best use of her talents here in the city. Whatever those talents are."

  "At the moment," Alberich replied, with just a tinge of sourness, having had to find reasons why every single obstacle in the course was one she needed to learn to negotiate, "Arguing and writing. Little enough of anything else, have I seen."

  "Heh. I've seen those little notebooks of hers—" Dethor blinked. "Now, why didn't I think of this before? Herald-Chronicler, of course! Elcarth's doing it now, but we want him for Dean of the Collegium, and we need to start training him in that—" His voice faded off as he got that faraway look in his eyes that meant he was thinking, and probably Mindspeaking with his Companion. Alberich now knew that look very, very well.

  And Dethor was right, of course; with all of his own reading of the Chronicles, he could see how being the Herald-Chronicler would easily be a full-time job. It wasn't just the doings of the Heralds that the Chronicler covered, it was everything; anything that had any impact on any part of the Kingdom larger than a small village.

  :What do you think?: he asked Kantor.

  :That it's probably the reason she was Chosen,: Kantor replied. :She gets onto a story like a rat-terrier and won't let go of it until she's shaken it free of all the facts.:

  Annoying little dogs, rat-terriers. All yap and idiotic courage—or was that "stubbornness?" Still. Come to think of it, that described Myste rather well.... Or, perhaps, she was more like a cat, one of those mouthy ones that wouldn't stop caterwauling, came when you didn't want them, and wouldn't come when you did.

  :We're in nasty times. Someone has to be willing to put down nasty facts without editing them,: Kantor continued. :And you like cats. You like rat-terriers, too.:

  He ignored that last. :Hmm. Nasty facts like my little exercise tonight?: he replied.

  :It ought to be written down somewhere,: Kantor countered. :Maybe not for common consumption, but if someone doesn't record everything, no matter how unflattering to the Heralds it is, the next generation is going to get the idea that we're all plaster saints. Then when someone has to do something underhanded far a good reason, nobody will be willing to do it....:

  He sighed. There was that. And plenty of Chroniclers in the past had created "auxiliary Chronicles" that not everyone was allowed to read, Chronicles that recorded mistakes, blunders, errors in judgment, and jobs undertaken that were somewhat less than the letter of the law, all in unflinching detail. Not the sort of thing one gave the children, of course, but these Chronicles, and not just the standard texts, were what Alberich was studying as history. Just now he was in the middle of the very brief Chronicle of Lavan Firestorm; some of the soul-baring on the part of Herald Pol and King Theran was enough to make the heart ache. He could relate all too easily to the litany of "should haves" and "could haves."

  Well, if Trainee Myste—who was certainly being allowed to read and study the unexpurgated versions of the Chronicles—was able to combine the qualities of detachment and tough-mindedness that the job required, especially now, well done to her. Elcarth probably wasn't; he was too tenderhearted to be unflattering to people he liked, even when it wasn't possible to get to the truth without being unflattering.

  Mind, only a handful of people would know that for certain within Myste's or Elcarth's lifetime, because the Chronicles weren't written for the present generations, they were written for the future, and very few Heralds other than the King and the King's Own were allowed to see what their current Chronicler wrote. And then it was in terms of editing by similarly tough-minded Heralds, and only to ensure accuracy.

  As he knew very well, the Chronicles could be extremely caustic at times, and no one really wanted to see himself, his presumed or even actual motivations, and his failures, stripped bare and put down in uncompromising writing.

  In his opinion, a young person didn't have the perspective nor the experience to write what needed to be written. So there, again, Myste was fully qualified. Appointing her as Chronicler Second would solve the problem of what to do with her very neatly indeed.

  Dethor abruptly came back to himself. "I believe that will work," he said, as if Alberich had been privy to whatever thoughts were going on in his mind. "You're going out in the city tonight?"

  "No other choice, have I," Alberich replied with a shrug. "Much result, I do not expect, but sow silver I must, a harvest of villainy to reap."

  In this, at least, he was able to aid Valdemar with a clear conscience. In disguise, one of half a dozen personae he had concocted and established, he prowled the less-savory quarters of Haven, looking for trouble. "Trouble" came in various guises, but money usually lured it out of hiding. The money wasn't bribes—Alberich was more subtle than that. Sometimes he posed as someone looking for a particular sort of creature to hire, sometimes as a bully-boy looking for work himself. Sometimes he bought information, and sometimes sold it. In all cases, there was nothing to connect the less-than-honest characters he portrayed in the seedy drinking houses and alleyways with Herald Alberich, the Weaponsmaster's Second. There was some benefit in having a scarred and scowling countenance that looked the very acme of villainy. If there wasn't a woman born who'd give him a second look, no one looked askance at him in a low-class bar either.

  And fortunately, there were enough foreigners in Haven that his accent caused only a little comment, and no one recognized it as Karsite. Most accepted his story that he came from Ruvan, Brendan, or Jkatha. All three were so far away he might just as well have told the inquisitive that he was from the moon. Virtually anything he claimed would be be
lieved. The only people who might know better would be true Guild Mercenaries, and so far he'd never seen one of those in Haven. They weren't needed here; Valdemar fielded its own standing army of full-time soldiers, called the Guard, and always had. Even Guild Mercenaries didn't bother to go where there was no need of them.

  "Well, you be careful out there tonight," Dethor said, putting down his empty tankard. Alberich automatically refilled it for him from the pitcher on the table between them and raised an eyebrow. Dethor wasn't known for having the Gift of ForeSight, but one never knew. "A reason for the warning, you have?" he asked carefully.

  But Dethor only shook his head. "Not really. It's just that it's been quiet, and it's usually quiet just before there's a lot of trouble."

  "And trouble then comes in threes," Alberich agreed gloomily. "And a full moon there is tonight. I shall walk carefully."

  "Full moon." Dethor groaned. "You're going to get into a brawl tonight, aren't you?"

  Alberich felt his muscles tighten with automatic anticipation. He suppressed his reaction as much as he could. Dethor was very good at reading body language.

  "Probably." Alberich shrugged with an indifference he didn't entirely feel. A bar fight would at least give him something on which to take out his frustration. He always slept better after being able to pound some villain's face into the floor. The wretches that tried to pick on him were at least as bad as he pretended to be. The only reason they were at the tavern instead of jail was that they hadn't been caught at anything lately, and they well deserved whatever punishment Vkandis decreed they meet at the hands of His transplanted worshiper.

  :Oh, very nice reasoning,: Kantor said, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

  "Try not to give the Healers any more work, will you?" Dethor requested with resignation. "They had a few words for me the last time you needed patching up, and since I couldn't tell them why you'd gotten cut up, they assumed I'd been working you and Kimel with live steel and you'd gotten the worst of it. So, of course, it was my fault."

  "That, I can promise," Alberich replied, gathering up all the supper dishes and placing them in the empty basket. "For that the wretches whose bones I break, seeking a Healer would not be, ever. Too fearful would they be, that in seeking Healing, it would be justice they found." With a salute to Dethor, he left the rest unsaid, and headed for the door. He couldn't help it; there were frustrations in him that were crying out for release. He wouldn't look for a fight, but if one came to him—

  He sensed Kantor's sigh.

  He left the basket just outside the door to their quarters for a servant to collect, and went out into the flooding light of the full moon to saddle Kantor. His Companion was waiting for him at the special stable only the Companions used.

  Just inside the door was the tack room, but Kantor's gear was all stowed on racks near his stall, just as it was for every Companion who resided primarily at the Collegium. On a warm summer night like this one, all the half-doors on the stalls were open to the night air, and with all of the moonlight pouring in, the lanterns weren't needed at all.

  They were quite alone in the stable, which suited Alberich's mood perfectly. :You've told Taver and Talamir we're going out tonight?: he asked Kantor, throwing only the plainest and most basic of saddle pads and blankets over Kantor's back.

  :Of course.: Kantor looked back over his shoulder as Alberich tightened the girth. :We're going out the private entrance?:

  :Of course.: Alberich swung up into the saddle, and they made their way across the Field. Kantor's hooves made no sound at all on the soft grass; they moved across the silver expanse like a pair of spirits gliding over the surface of a silent sea.

  There was a little gate at the far end of the wall around Companion's Field that would have been a dreadful security hole had it not been closed by three doors—the final one of iron cunningly cast to look exactly like the rusty-brown stone that the wall itself was made of. Only Talamir, Sendar, and Dethor had held the keys to those doors, and Dethor had given his to Alberich. Furthermore, the iron one was so heavy that it required a Companion's strength to haul it open from the outside, and it wasn't likely that anyone with a horse or a mule was going to be able to get along the outer wall of the Palace without a challenge. And then a would-be intruder would have to get his mount to push instead of pull. Not too likely, that. It was an amazingly clever door, that actually could swing in an entire one-hundred-eighty-degree arc—but there was a spring-loaded stop on it that worked as a fairly high doorsill to keep it from swinging outward; a stop that could only be dropped down level to the ground from the inside. So Kantor could push it to swing out when they were on the inside, but no one could pull it out from the outside. Locking the door released it again, and as Alberich turned his key in that final lock, he heard it smack up into place on its spring.

  There was no one on the road, but several times he looked up to see one of the Guards keeping watch on the wall, so well hidden in the shadows that only he, who knew every hiding place along it, could have spotted them. He nodded to them, and got a little hand signal in recognition. The Palace Guard, at least, now knew and trusted him.

  Of course, he'd trained a good many of them, and bouted regularly with all of them. You learned a lot about a man, sparring with him. Once Kimel had accepted him, the rest had started coming around.

  He wasn't in Whites tonight—and that would have made him instantly recognizable to the Guards no matter what. He could have Whites if he wanted them... but he didn't want them. He'd become accustomed to those dark gray leathers; they suited him, suited his nature, suited his wish to be something less conspicuous.

  :As if you could be anything other than conspicuous,: Kantor scoffed.

  :When I'm with you, perhaps not,: he acknowledged. :You are rather conspicuous all by yourself.:

  By alleys and shortcuts that only he knew, he and Kantor slipped quietly among the mansions of the highborn, through the townhouses of the wealthy, and suddenly came out on a side street in a neighborhood of inns and taverns. They were only paces away from the Companion's Bell, a respectable inn that was their intermediate goal.

  Alberich felt that tightening of his muscles again, and a quickening of his pulse. It was time to go to work, work that he understood, work that he, and only he, could do.

  The Bell had several distinct advantages for what he was about to do. Firstly, it was a place often frequented by Heralds, so the sight of a Companion in a loose-box would not go remarked, nor would the sight of Alberich entering the stable-yard. Second, the Heralds had a private taproom available to them—Heralds could and did mingle with the regular customers, but no one would think twice about Alberich not appearing among them, for plenty of Heralds who came here kept to the private room.

  Ah, but then there was the third reason.... He dismounted, and Kantor followed him into the stable. There were two other Companions there already, who whickered a welcome to both of them. Excellent,: Kantor said. :I shall have reinforcements—if you need them.:

  Alberich snorted, and left Kantor to make himself at home in a third loose-box as he approached the far wall, and the third reason for his being here.

  The third reason for his being here and no other place, was that the Bell had a locked room at the back of the stable that contained a trunk, and had a second locked door that let out onto an alley. A very dark alley, and one that, somehow, never had patrols of constables or City Guard at night.

  He unlocked the door. He paused just long enough to light a spill at the lantern beside the door, then locked himself inside. There was a second lantern there, which he lit.

  In that trunk had been Dethor's disguises; now it held Alberich's.

  Someone else—Alberich thought it was probably the innkeeper himself—had a key to that room, for any clothing he left atop the trunk was taken away and laundered and placed back inside it. Some disguises, of course, shouldn't be cleaned—the stains and yes, the odor lent verisimilitude to his persona. Those he put back in th
e trunk himself, wrapped in a waxed canvas bag to keep from stinking up the rest of his gear.

  Tonight, however, it was about time for Aarak Benshane, a common enough thug with a reputation for not asking too many questions of prospective employers, to put in an appearance at the Blue Boar. Aarak was not too noisome a fellow; Alberich could get away with cleanliness tonight.

  Alberich opened the trunk and selected his disguise with care; leather trews, battered boots and hat, scarred black leather jerkin strong enough to turn most blades, and a shirt of no particular color that was a bit frayed about the cuffs and collar. Over these, he slung a belt holding two knives, but no sword. Aarak did most of his work with his fists.

  :That should suit you, considering the mood you're in.: Kantor was not being ironic nor sarcastic this time.