“Like hell!” he retorted feelingly. “You are crazy! Or—I am—” It occurred to him then that all this might just be some horrible dream. Maybe when he’d jumped onto the horse, it had thrown him, and he was lying on his back in that park, knocked out cold and hallucinating. Maybe he hadn’t even seen the horse, the heat had knocked him over and he was raving. None of this was happening—that must be it—
:Don’t be stupid,: Cymry replied, shoving at him with her nose. :Be sensible! Do you ever have black eyes and a broken nose in a dream? It’s not a dream, you’re not unconscious, and you are Chosen. And you’re going to be a Herald.:
“I don’t bloody well think so!” he said, trying to back further away from her and coming up against the wall of the little building. “If you think I am, you’re crazy. Don’ you know what I am?”
How could this be happening? He didn’t want to be a Herald! Oh, even Bazie had spoken about them with admiration, but no Heralds were ever plucked out of a gutter, not even in a tale!
:Of course I do,: she replied calmly. :You’re a thief. A rather good one for your age, too—:
“Well, then I can’t be a Herald, can I?” He groped for words to try and convince her how mad, how impossible this was. Even though, deep inside, something cried out that he didn’t want it to be impossible. “Heralds are—well, they’re all noble an’ highborn—”
She snorted with amusement at his ignorance. :No they aren’t. Not more than a quarter of them at most, anyway. Heralds are just ordinary people; farmers, craftsmen, fisherfolk—ordinary people.:
“Well, they’re heroes—”
:And none of them started out that way,: she countered. :Most of them started out as ordinary younglings, being Chosen by a Companion. There wasn’t anything special about them until then—not visibly, anyway.:
“They’re good!”
She considered that for a moment, head to one side. :That rather depends on your definition of “good,” actually. Granted, they are supposed to uphold the law,: she continued thoughtfully, :But in the course of their duties, plenty of them break the law as much as they uphold it, if you want to be technical about it.:
“But—but—” he spluttered, as the last light pierced through the tree trunks and turned everything a rosy red, including Cymry. “But—Heralds are—they do—”
:Heralds are what they have to be. They do what the Queen and the country need,: Cymry said, supremely calm and confident. :We Choose those who are best suited to do those things and supply those needs. And what makes you think that the Queen and country might not need the skills of a thief?:
Well, there was just no possible answer to that, and even though his mouth opened and closed several times, he couldn’t make any sounds come out of it.
She paced close to him, and once again he was caught—though not nearly so deeply—in those sparkling sapphire eyes. :Now look—I’m tired and hungry and sweaty. So are you.:
“But—” They were in the middle of nowhere! Where was he—? How was he—?
:This is a Way Station, and as a Herald Trainee—don’t argue!—you’re entitled to anything in it.: She whickered softly. :I promise, there’s food and bedding and just about anything you might need in there. There’s also a bucket of water inside to prime the pump with. I suggest that before it gets too horribly dark, you pump up some water, clean both of us up, and get us both some of the food that’s waiting. You are hungry, aren’t you? You can eat and rest here for the night, and we can talk about all of this.:
She cocked both of her ears at him, and added, :And while you’re at it, it wouldn’t hurt to make a poultice for that black eye you’re getting. It’s becoming rather spectacular.:
Herald Alberich, Weaponsmaster to Heralds’ Collegium and sometime intelligence agent for Queen Selenay, put down the brush he’d been using on Kantor’s mane and stared at his Companion in complete and utter shock.
Companions didn’t lie—but what Kantor had just told him was impossible.
“You must be joking!” he said aloud, in his native tongue.
Kantor turned his head to look at his Chosen. :As you well know,: he said, with mock solemnity, :I have no sense of humor. :
“In a pig’s eye,” Alberich muttered, thinking of all of the tricks his Companion had authored over the years—including the one of smuggling himself past the Karsite Border to Choose and abduct one Captain Alberich of the Karsite Army.
:But I assure you, I am not joking. Cymry has managed to Choose that young scamp you’ve caught eavesdropping on you over the past couple of months. He is a thief, and she’ll probably be delivering him to the Collegium some time tomorrow. So I suggest you prepare your fellow Heralds. He promises to make things interesting around here.: Kantor arched his neck. :But before you do that, you might take that brush along my crest; it still itches.:
“What in the name of Vkandis Sunlord are we supposed to do with a thief?” Alberich demanded, not obliging Kantor with the brush.
:What you always do with the newly Chosen. You’ll train him, of course.: Kantor turned his head again and regarded his Chosen with a very blue eye. :Hasn’t it occurred to you that a skilled thief would be extremely useful in the current situation that you and the Queen have found yourselves in? Scratch a thief, you’ll find a spy. Set a thief to take a thief, and you have been losing state secrets.:
“Well—”
:Of course it has. All you have to do is appeal to the lad’s better instincts and bring them to the fore. I assure you, he has plenty of better instincts. After all, he’s been Chosen, and we don’t make mistakes about the characters of those we Choose. Do we?: Kantor didn’t have any eyebrows to arch, but the sidelong look he bestowed on Alberich was certainly very similar.
“Well—”
:So there you are. About that brush in your hand—:
Belatedly, Alberich brought the brush up and began vigorously using it along Kantor’s crest. The Companion sighed in blissful pleasure, and closed his eyes.
And Alberich began to consider just how he was going to break the news about this newest trainee to Dean Elcarth and the rest.
Assuming, of course, they weren’t already having similar conversations with their Companions.
It was a good thing that Bazie had taught him how to cook. Yes, there was food here, but it wasn’t the sort of thing the ordinary city-bred boy would have recognized as such.
:I’d have told you what to do,: Cymry said, her head sticking in the door, watching him, as he baked currant-filled oatcakes on a stone on the hearth. He’d also put together a nice bean soup from the dried beans and spices he’d found, but he didn’t think it would be done any time soon, and he was hungry now. :I wouldn’t let you starve. I’m perfectly capable of telling you how to use just about anything in this Way Station.:
“Somehow I ain’t s’prised,” he replied, turning the cakes deftly once one side was brown. “Is there anything ye can’t do?”
:I’m a bit handicapped by the lack of hands,: she admitted cheerfully.
She—and he—were both much cleaner at this point. Beside the pump, there had been a generous trough, easily filled and easily emptied. After she’d drunk her fill, and he had washed and brushed her down as she asked, he’d had a bath in it. Then he emptied it out and refilled it for her drinking. The cold bath had felt wonderful; it was the first time in a week that he’d been able to cool down. He’d also washed up his clothing; it was hanging on a bush just outside. It was a lot more comfortable to sit around in his singlet, since there wasn’t anyone but Cymry to see him anyway.
She’d told him which herbs to make into a poultice that did a lot to ease the ache of his eye and nose, and more to make into a tea that did something about his throbbing head. She already knew, evidently, that he could cook, and had left him alone while he readied his dinner over the tiny hearth in the Way Station. Now he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t figured out she was a Companion immediately.
Unless it was just that the id
ea of a Companion wandering around in an old worn set of tack was so preposterous, and the idea of a Companion deciding to make a Herald out of a thief was still more so.
:I told them to tack me up in the oldest kit in the stables that would fit me,: she offered, as he scooped the oatcakes off their stone and juggled one from hand to hand, waiting for it to cool enough to eat. He gave her a curious stare.
“Ye—ye kidnapped me!” he accused.
:Well, would you have come with me if I’d walked up to you and Chosen you?: she asked, her head cocked to one side. :I am sorry about your nose, but that was an accident.:
“But—”
:I’ve known for several weeks that you were my Chosen,: she said, as if it was so matter-of-fact that he shouldn’t even be considering any other possibility. :I’ve just been waiting for the opportunity to get you alone where I could explain things to you.:
“But—”
:You’ve already lost this argument, you know,: she pointed out. :Three times, in fact.:
He gave up. Besides, the cake was cool enough to eat. And he was hungry enough by this point to eat the oats raw, much less in the cakes he’d just made.
He put a second poultice on his eye and nose and lay back in the boxbed that filled most of the Way Station. It had a thick layer of fresh hay in it, covered over with a coarse canvas sheet; it was just as comfortable as his bed in the Priory, and although he wasn’t sleepy yet, he didn’t really want to venture out into the alien environment outside his door. He heard things out there; all manner of unfamiliar sounds enlivened the darkness, and he didn’t much care for them. There were wild animals out there, owls and bats and who knew what else. There could be bears. . . .
:You don’t for one moment think that I would let anything hurt you, do you?: The unexpected fierceness of that question made him open his good eye and turn his head to look at her, where she lay half-in, half-out of the doorway.
“I don’ know anything ‘bout you,” he admitted, slowly. “Nothin’ at all ’bout Companions.”
:Well, I wouldn’t.: She sighed. :And you’re about to learn a great deal about Companions.:
“No, I ain’t. They’re gonna take one look at me an’ throw me out,” he replied, stubbornly.
:No, they aren’t. They already know who you are, what you are, and that I’m bringing you in tomorrow.:
“What?” he yelped, sitting up straight, keeping the poultice clapped to his eye with one hand.
:Well, not everybody, just the people who need to. The Dean of the Collegium—that’s the Herald who’s in charge of the whole of Heralds’ Collegium. Herald Alberich, the Weaponsmaster. The Queen’s Own and the Queen. A couple of the other teachers. They all know, and they aren’t going to throw you out.: She was so matter-of-fact about it—as if it shouldn’t even occur to him to doubt her. :As to how they know, I told them, of course. Actually I told them through their Companions, but it amounts to the same thing.:
He flopped back down in the bed, head spinning. This was all going much too fast for him. Much, much too fast. “Now what am I gonna do?” he moaned, mostly to himself. “I can’t ever go back—th’ Watch’d hev me afore I took a step—”
:You couldn’t go back anyway.: Cymry replied.
“But—”
:Skif—do you really, really want me to leave you?: The voice in his mind was no more than a whisper, but it was a whisper that woke the echoes of that unforgettable moment when he felt an empty place inside him fill with something he had wanted for so long, so very, very long—
“No,” he whispered back, and to his profound embarrassment, felt his throat swelling with a sob at the very thought.
:I didn’t think so. Because I couldn’t bear to lose you.: Her thoughts took on a firmer tone. :And I won’t. No one tries to separate a Companion and her Chosen. That would be—unthinkable.:
He lay in the firelit darkness for a long time, listening to the strange night sounds in the woods outside, the beating of his own heart, and his own thoughts.
Then he sighed heavily. “I guess I gotta be a Herald,” he said reluctantly. “But I still think there’s gonna be trouble.”
:Then we’ll face it together. Because I am never, ever going to let anyone separate us.:
In the morning, gingerly probing of his nose and the area around his eye—and the fact that he could actually open that eye again—proved that the poultice had done its work. He cleaned himself up in the cold water, and donned his shirt and trews—wrinkled and a little damp, but they’d have to do. They both ate, he cleaned the things he’d used and shut the Way Station up again. He’d been stiff and sore when he woke up, but he knew from experience that only moving around would make that kind of soreness go away. Besides, at the moment, he couldn’t wait to get back to the city where he belonged. Whatever people saw in “the country” was invisible to him. The silence alone would drive him crazy in a day.
There was just one problem, of course—and that was that he wasn’t going home, he was going to this Collegium place. As he mounted Cymry’s well-worn saddle—with a great deal more decorum this time—he shook his head slightly. “I still think there’s gonna be trouble,” he predicted glumly.
:Skif, there will always be trouble where you are,: she replied mischievously. :We’ll just have to try to keep it from getting out of hand!:
Without a backward glance, she started up the forest trail, going in a few paces from a walk to a trot to an easy lope. It was very strange, riding her, now that he knew what she was. For one thing, she wasn’t a horse—he didn’t have control over her, and that was the way it was supposed to be, not an accident. But as they moved out of the woods and onto roads that had a bit of morning traffic, he began to notice something else.
Now that they weren’t charging down the road in a manner threatening to life and limb, people paid attention to Cymry, they clearly knew what she was, and they looked at her, and by extension her rider, with respect.
Or at least they did until they saw his black eye.
But even then, they looked at him with respect only leavened with sympathy. And since they weren’t galloping at a headlong pace, but rather moving in and out of the traffic at a respectable, but easy trot, some people actually began to call greetings to him and her.
“New-Chosen, aye, lad?” said a farmer, perched so high on the seat of his wagon that he was eye-to-eye with Skif. And without waiting for an answer, added, “Here, catch!” and tossed him a ripe pear.
Startled, he caught it neatly, and the second one that the same man tossed to him, before Cymry found another opening in the traffic and moved smoothly ahead.
:If you’d cut that up into quarters, I’d like some.:
He was only too pleased to oblige, since he had the feeling that was what the farmer intended anyway. The little eating knife he always kept in his belt was accessible enough, and since he didn’t have to use the reins, he didn’t have to try and cut the pears up one-handed. She reached around and took each quarter daintily from his hand as he leaned over her neck to hand it to her.
Everywhere he looked, he met smiles and nods. It was a remarkable sensation, not only to be noticed, but to elicit that reaction in total strangers.
He did feel rather—naked, though. He wasn’t at all comfortable with all of this noticing.
:Don’t worry. You’ll blend in once you’re in your Grays. You’ll be just another Trainee.:
He was getting used to her talking in his head—Mindspeech, she called it—and he was starting to get vague pictures and other associations along with the words. When she talked about being “in his Grays,” he knew at once that what she meant was the uniform of the Heraldic Trainees, modeled after the Heralds’ own uniforms, but gray in color.
:That’s so people don’t expect you to know what you’re doing yet,: she told him, looking back over her shoulder at him with one eye. :And by the way, you don’t have to actually talk to me for me to hear and understand you.:
So she knew w
hat he was thinking. That wasn’t exactly a comforting thought. A man liked to have a little privacy—
:And when you’re a man, I’ll give it to you.:
“Hey!” he said, staring at her ears indignantly, and garnering the curious glances of a couple driving a donkey cart next to him.
:Oh, don’t be so oversensitive! I won’t eavesdrop! You’ll just have to learn not to “shout” all your thoughts.:
Great, now he would have to watch, not only what he did and said, but what he thought. . . . This Herald business was getting more unpleasant all the time.
:It’s not like that, Skif,: she said coaxingly. :Really it isn’t. I was just teasing you.:
He found a smile starting, no matter how he tried to fight it down. How could he possibly stay angry with her? How could he even get angry with her? And maybe that was the point.
He wasn’t sure how long it had taken them to get from the park where he’d found her to the Way Station where they stopped, but it took them most of the morning to get back to Haven. The Guards on the walls paid absolutely no attention to him, although they had to have seen him careening down the road yesterday. Cymry didn’t volunteer any information as he craned his neck up to look at them, then bestowed a measuring glance at the two on either side of the passage beneath the wall. He wondered what they were thinking, and what they might have said or done yesterday.
They sure didn’t try to stop us, anyway. Not that it was likely that they’d have had much luck—not with only two Guards on the ground and Cymry able to leap a farm wagon without thinking about it. Maybe it was just as well they hadn’t tried. He might have ended up with both eyes blackened.
Once they got inside the city walls, though, people stopped paying as much attention to them. Well, that wasn’t such a surprise, people saw Heralds coming and going all the time in Haven. On the whole, he felt a bit more comfortable without so many eyes on him.
Their progress took him through some areas he wasn’t at all familiar with as they wound their way toward the Palace and the Collegia. He didn’t exactly have a lot to do with craftsmen and shopkeepers—his forte was roof walking and the liftin’ lay, not taking things from shops. That had always seemed vaguely wrong to him anyway; those people worked hard to make or get their goods, and taking anything from them was taking bread off their tables. Helping himself to the property of those who already had so much they couldn’t keep track of it, now, that was one thing—but taking a pair of shoes from a cobbler who’d worked hard to make them just because he took a fancy to them was something else again.
Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief Page 22