“You know him better than I do,” Hedion said darkly. “Come on, then.”
Rhoses tossed his head, and once again Meran had the sense of a conversation taking place just beyond the range of hearing. Rhoses walked forward, and Hedion fell into step beside him. Few of those the little party passed gave them a second glance. Before he’d left Haven, Meran would have thought it impossible for anyone to mistake a Companion for a horse. But many of Valdemar’s citizens never saw a Companion at all—and many of those who did were woefully unobservant, at least in Meran’s opinion. A Bard was trained to observe, so that the things they saw could be used to add life and heart to the songs they crafted.
“You see,” Meran said—he’d quickly learned to speak to Rhoses in the same way he’d speak to Hedion, “we’ve run into something a bit odd. There’s a man here at the fair with the power to make Elade change her mind.”
Elade thumped him—hard—in the shoulder with her fist.
“Ow,” Meran said ruefully, rubbing the bruise. “And that part isn’t the problem. But he’s a thief. And I’m not sure how he’s doing it.”
“ ‘A Bard should know all the Mind Gifts.’ ” Hedion translated Rhoses’ reply. “ ‘Even if he is a mere Journeyman.’ ” A lifted eyebrow conveyed the irony Meran couldn’t hear.
Meran bowed mockingly without breaking step. “I did pay attention to my teachers, you know. All I can tell you is what it isn’t. Not Mindspeech, not Farspeaking, not even Overshadowing. People just . . . believe him.”
“‘Not Compulsion?’ ” Hedion (Rhoses) asked.
“You think I wouldn’t recognize the kissing cousin of the Bardic Gift?” Meran demanded indignantly. He sighed. “I only saw him up close once,” he admitted. “If he was using Influence, he did it faster and stronger than I’ve ever thought was possible.”
“Apparently he used it on Elade directly,” Hedion said, answering the silent question.
Elade scowled ferociously. “If that’s what it was, I’ll make sure he never does it again once I catch him. I chased him through the crowd. I caught him. He . . .” She hesitated, and her next words were spoken with obvious reluctance. “He told me I’d made a mistake—that he wasn’t the man I was after.”
“And?” Hedion prompted.
“And I let him go. I realized I’d grabbed the wrong man, and I let him go. I would have gone on thinking that, too, if Meran hadn’t opened his big mouth.”
“Would you rather not know you’d been an idiot?” Meran demanded.
“Children,” Hedion said (or it might have been Rhoses; who knew?)
“So,” Meran said. “If it’s a Gift, I wondered if you knew what it was. And if it’s that strong, why hasn’t someone come for him? A Companion, I mean?”
Rhoses seemed to be thinking the matter over before answering. “ ‘Companions only come for future Heralds,’ ” Hedion finally relayed.
“But . . .” Elade said, puzzled.
“I think he means our nameless friend doesn’t have the morals to be a Herald,” Hedion said.
No one knew what qualities Companions looked for in their Chosen. The people they brought to the Collegium were as diverse as the people of Valdemar. But all of them had that something that meant they would someday don Herald’s Whites and dedicate their lives to service. I suppose that includes Gaurane, Meran added, with the usual puzzlement the thought brought. If there was an ideal Herald, then Gaurane was sort of . . .the anti-Herald.
They’d reached their lodging.
“I suppose I’d better—” Hedion began.
Gaurane staggered through the doorway, squinting painfully at the daylight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, regarding Rhoses without any sign of welcome. “I suppose it was inevitable. Come along then, if you’re coming.” He turned and strode away.
You had to walk quite a way before you left the outskirts of Summerfair behind, but at least Meran was used to walking. Beside him, Elade kept up an endless, nearly inaudible grumbling. But at last they’d put a good mile between themselves and the nearest fair straggler. Gaurane located a convenient rock, sat down with a grunt, and reached into his tunic for the ever-present flask.
“Maybe someone can tell me why this is our problem,” he said, after he drank. “You—” he regarded Elade balefully “—hate being got round with Mind-magic, and you—” now Meran was his target “—never saw a wasp nest you didn’t want to poke. You have a death wish—” this was for Hedion “—and that is a compendium of all the virtues,” he finished, gesturing toward Rhoses. “And none of this has to do with Karse.”
“How resistant are Heralds to Mind-magic?” Meran asked. “I’m not asking you,” he added hurriedly. “I’m asking him.”
All of them looked at Rhoses.
“ ‘It . . .depends . . .’ ” Hedion finally quoted.
Gaurane snorted. “Can’t fool one of the circus ponies, you know that damned well,” he said harshly.
“But you can . . . fool . . . a Herald,” Hedion said, speaking for himself now. “If Healer’s Gift works on them, so do the others. Depending on the Herald. You don’t need a strong Gift to be Chosen. Or even one of the Mind Gifts at all.”
Rhoses tossed his head. Hedion paused, listening. “ ‘When we are not with our Chosen, we only know what they know. Yes. It is possible.’ ”
“What he means is, even if you dragged your man right up to one of those idiot meddlers in their pretty white suits, it’s even odds he’d convince them to let him go again sooner or later,” Gaurane said irritably. “And we still aren’t thief takers. So why is it our problem?”
“Thieves are cautious,” Meran said slowly. A thought had been taking shape in his mind from the first time he’d run into their Gifted thief; even now he wasn’t entirely sure of the shape of it. “You’d say it would be more cautious not to steal at all, I know, but imagine you have no choice. Or just think you can get away with it. Even so, nobody wants to be caught. So a thief—a career thief, a professional—doesn’t take risks. But imagine there are no risks. Imagine you’ll never be caught—or if you’re caught, you’ll never be punished. Once you were sure of that . . . what might you do?”
“You mean he’ll do worse,” Elade said flatly.
“Maybe,” Meran said.
“We can’t risk it,” Hedion said firmly. “But if you’ve guessed right, Meran, how do we catch him? Or keep our hands on him once we have?”
He looked toward Gaurane, and Meran knew Rhoses must be speaking. But whatever he said, Hedion didn’t repeat it.
Carjoris Lor was a happy man. Why shouldn’t he be, when the whole world was his treasure sack? From the moment he’d made up his mind to come west to find his fortune, Fortune had found him.
He’d always lived by his wits. He’d grown up traveling from farm to farm, following the work, and a quick tongue and a gift of invention had saved young Carjoris from countless beatings. In his itinerant world, theft had few consequences: it would be a year and more before a laborer’s caravan returned, and by then the theft would have been forgotten.
He was not clever enough to see—not then—that the things a child might steal were small and easily forgotten . . . but that the theft of clothes or boots or coin would be mourned and long remembered. He’d been shocked when, upon their return to a place he’d nearly forgotten, his family was accused of stealing—and outraged when they cast him out.
You never cared where things came from. In all the years I brought you things, you never asked. But in the end, you cared more about being welcome back in some mudhole than you did about me.
But it was an old injury now, half forgotten. He wasn’t sure when it was that the lies he told as he wandered from town to town began to be taken for truth. At first he thought it was his cleverness—or their stupidity.
But later he came to realize it was magic. Whatever he said—whatever he wanted—would be taken as truth.
It was a pity it never lasted long. Once he was out of sight, his victi
ms remembered their own truths. No matter how hard he tried to settle down, he’d always had to keep moving.
Then one day he’d heard that in Valdemar no one believed in magic.
People who didn’t believe in magic would surely be ripe for the plucking.
When he reached Valdemar, he’d been careful and cautious at first, using his magic for small things, things no one could say did them any harm. But the fact it worked had made him bolder. A country fair was just the place to test his powers. And after that . . .
A fine horse and fine clothes and a pocket full of gold—and no one ever again telling me what to do.
Today Carjoris decided to visit the horse fair. He did not fear arrest—even the guardswoman who’d chased him yesterday hadn’t been immune to his magic. If anyone accused him, all he had to do was say he was innocent. They’d believe him. He moved quickly past the lines of mules, the broken-down hacks, the plow horses and cart horses. There, at the end of the street, were the creatures he sought. Their coats gleamed like satin and silk, and a man who rode one of those fine mares or geldings would be seen instantly for a man of wealth and stature.
And a man who looked to buy would be feted like a prince.
He passed a shaggy unkempt fellow loitering nearby—obviously some poor fool looking to exchange a day’s work for a meal and a bed. Perhaps I shall hire a servant, he thought as he walked toward the horse seller, his mind on a pleasant afternoon of wine and flattery.
Then something struck him, and Carjoris knew nothing more.
He did not know how long it had been when at last consciousness returned. He was lying on the ground with a sack on his head. He groaned and rolled over with a grunt. Someone had put a sack over his head. He pawed it away and sat up, wincing at the brightness of the sun.
“Hello,” a voice said pleasantly.
Carjoris blinked. The voice belonged to the ruffian he’d seen near the horse seller’s. The man was sitting on a rock holding a wineskin. A white horse—superior to any of the beasts Carjoris had been admiring—stood behind him, though since it had neither saddle nor bridle, it clearly didn’t belong to the stranger.
The rock was in the middle of a field, and the field was in the middle of nowhere.
“What happened to me?” Carjoris asked. His mouth was dust-dry; he spat to clear it.
“I hit you over the head with a club,” the stranger said. “I’m Gaurane. Who are you?”
Carjoris blinked, certain he could not have heard correctly. “I’m thirsty. Give me the wine.” He held out his hand.
But instead of handing over the wineskin, Gaurane laughed. “Sorry, Thirsty. I don’t share.”
“It’s mine,” Carjoris said. “Give it to me.”
Gaurane simply shook his head. “Save your breath, my son. Your tricks aren’t going to work on me.” He tapped the side of his head. “Deaf as a post.”
Carjoris got to his feet painfully and looked around. They weren’t alone here, as he’d first thought. In the distance he could see three people watching them.
“I’m leaving now,” he said.
“Did you know Elade’s from Sensolding?” Gaurane asked. Something in his voice made Carjoris hesitate. “Sensolding, that’s Holder lands. Harsh country. Hard people. I suspect none of that means much to you, but try this: She learned to use a great bow almost before she could walk. The range on it is . . . well, from where she’s standing to here. That’s her over there.” Gaurane waved, and one of the figures waved back. “Walk away from me, son, and she’ll put an arrow into you.”
“That’s murder,” Carjoris said.
“Only if she kills you,” Gaurane said. “Now sit down. I have a few things to say to you.”
Carjoris looked from the figures in the distance to Gaurane, and he sat.
“You aren’t from here, are you?” Gaurane asked.
There wasn’t anything to do but answer,and hope he could find a way out of this. “Iftel.”
“Ah. So, likely you think you have some kind of magic power. But you see, magic doesn’t work in Valdemar. We call what you can do a Gift.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Carjoris said.
“Oh, I don’t think so. Elade doesn’t think so—you used your power on her, you know. Meran doesn’t think so—he saw you take the purse at the scentseller’s stall. And me, I really don’t care. But my friends do, so we’re going to make sure you don’t do things like that any more. Stealing is wrong,” he added virtuously.
“I won’t ever do it again—I promise!” Carjoris said desperately. If he could convince the man that he repented and get the maniac to let him go—
“Well, here’s the thing,” Gaurane said. “I don’t believe you. And using a Gift to trick people, that’s even more wrong. But it’s tempting, isn’t it?”
“I never took anything anybody needed!” Carjoris said. “They were rich!”
“Ah, well, that’s a matter of perspective,” Gaurane said. “Now me, I think you’re a nasty little bully, and I wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep over slitting your throat. Hedion’s got standards, though. So I suppose we could just dose you up with something that shuts down your Gift—oh, don’t look at me like that; this is Valdemar, they understand the mind-gifts here—and send you off to Haven. They’d put Truth Spell on you, you know. And when you’d told them what you’d been up to, why, they’d get someone to burn your Gift out of you before they sent you off to prison. Or we could just do what Elade suggested, and slit your tongue. Hard to talk people into things when you can’t talk.”
Carjoris looked at him for a long minute, trying to judge how serious he was. When Gaurane did not so much as blink, Carjoris knew there was no escaping this disaster. “Please,” he said, covering his face with his hands. “Please.”
“And then there’s Meran,” Gaurane said, as though Carjoris hadn’t spoken. “Did you know he grew up on the streets in Haven? A beggar and a thief. But one day a Bard found him and took him off to the Collegium, and he never stole again. He didn’t have to. The question is, would you steal if you didn’t have to?”
Carjoris lifted his head and stared at Gaurane at that ray of potential salvation. “I wouldn’t! I won’t!” he said desperately.
“Ah,” Gaurane said sighing. “Never lie to a drunk, boy. We’re good at seeing the truth. Of course, you have a third choice.” He reached down into the grass beside him and picked something up. Carjoris couldn’t see what it was before Gaurane tossed it at his feet.
He looked down at it, and could not believe his eyes. “You want me to wear—a collar?” The silver flashed in the sun.
“It’s even got a lock,” Gaurane said cheerfully, bouncing a small object in his hand. “And the thing about this collar is—oh, I don’t suppose you can read, so let me tell you about it—the engraving on it says you should be handed over to the next Herald who rides by. You’ll recognize them. They’ll be the ones riding something that looks like that.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the white horse standing patiently behind him. “And those things are smart, and you can’t trick them, and they aren’t horses, no matter what they look like. And you’ll find yourself in Valdemar before you can blink. They’ll probably hire you out as a laborer there so you can pay back what you stole. After they burn out your Gift, of course.”
“If—If I wear that, you’ll let me go?” Carjoris stammered. Once he was away from here, he could surely find a blacksmith to strike the collar off. Only what if they read it first? What if they chained him up and gagged him and delivered him to one of these Heralds?
The white horse snorted, and Gaurane gave a sharp bark of laughter.
“Or you wear that and come with us. Do what you’re told. We work hard, harder than you’ve ever worked a day in your life, but the reward is well worth the labor. We’ll put you to work, teach you what you need to know in order to be of use. If you’re a good boy, we might even get someone to teach you the right way to use that Gift of yours someday, once we�
��re convinced you’re done misusing it. Run, try to compel any of us, make any trouble—and you’ll wish I’d let Elade put an arrow into you now.”
Carjoris shook his head, trying to make some kind of sense out of all this. “Why—Why—Why—” he stuttered.
“Maybe you deserve a chance to be someone better. Maybe you were born with your Gift for a reason. Maybe all you need is somebody to show you how to be a hero. Maybe I’m tired of listening to Elade bitch about doing all the work around the camp. Or maybe I bet Hedion you’d rather take your chances in Haven than do an honest day’s work. But like I said, it’s your choice.”
“Who . . . Who do you think you are?” Anger got the better of caution, of the hard-learned lesson that the only way to survive was to smile and give soft words no matter what words were said to you.
“Me?” Gaurane said. “I’m nobody. But I was somebody—for a while. And it’s a funny thing, but if you give someone a thing worth doing, well, sometimes that’s worth quite a lot.” He got to his feet, grunting with the effort. “Time’s up, youngster. Choose.”
“I . . .” He looked down at the collar at his feet. Trapped, and trapped well, that much was certain. He could run and take his chances with the woman’s aim. He could put on the collar and take his chances with finding someone to strike it from around his neck. He could give himself up to one of their Heralds and take his chances that their punishment would be lenient and easily survived.
But Gaurane was watching him, a little smile lingering at the edges of his lips. He looked like a man who held a secret. And Carjoris suddenly, desperately, wanted to know what that secret was.
A hero. He liked the sound of that.
“My name is Carjoris,” he said. His hands shook as he reached for the collar. It was lined in leather, and the metal was warm from the sun. But it still felt cold and heavy as he closed it around his throat.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Gaurane said, without irony.
Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 5