Gervais gave a little buck. :The girl has Talent. Speak to your grandmother on her behalf.:
“A Bard?” Their grandmother swept a narrow–eyed gaze from Jors to Annamarin and back. “Are you certain?”
“A certain as I can be, not being a Bard myself.” Jors watched her expression change, her hand begin to rise, and knew she had just asked herself, What would Jors know about Bards? “Gervais,” he added quickly, “is certain.”
“Well . . .” She nodded slowly. “. . .that’s different then, isn’t it?” Reaching out, she took Annamarin’s hand and tugged her close. “Are you sure you want to be a Bard, child?”
Annamarin rolled her eyes. “It’s not something you do, Gran, it’s something you are.”
The old woman snorted. “It’s not something I am.”
“Well, no,” Annamarin admitted. “But it’s like what Jors is.”
“Please, child, he was Chosen. That has nothing to do with what he is and everything to do with his Companion.”
“With his Companion finding him worthy.”
“What?”
Sighing, Annamarin tugged her hand free so she could gesture expansively. “There isn’t a Jors before and a Jors after, Gran, there’s just Jors. And Jors is a Herald.”
:From the mouths of babes.:
“My point exactly.” Gran grinned triumphantly and whacked Jors on the shins with her cane.
When Annamarin frowned, Jors shook his head.
“Try again when you’re older.” he told her later when they were walking away from the settlement, down the track toward Greenhaven.
“It’s tragic she doesn’t understand!”
“It’s a little annoying,” he admitted. “But, in the end, I know who I am.”
:Outside the palisades.: Jors jumped as Gervais tail slapped against the back of his legs. :And staying away solves nothing,: the Companion added.
:Not every problem can be solved. Or needs to be.: Out loud he said, “There’ll be Bards visiting this summer.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m a Herald.” He grinned. “I know things. And, in a couple of years, I’ll see you in Haven.”
:You hate staying in Haven.:
:I didn’t say I was going to stay. I just said I’d see her there.:
:And then tragically abandon her?:
:Stop it.:
“You don’t look so sad when you talk to him in your head.” She planted her feet and struck a dramatic pose. “This is as far as I’m allowed to go. Can I hug you? I’m clean.”
“You could hug me if you were dirty,” he told her.
She shook her head, one plait falling loose. “That would be so tragically wrong.”
Hugging Annamarin had nothing to do with being seven or ten or fourteen. When he hugged her, as her cousin and a Herald, he hugged the future, not the past.
:You didn’t tell your grandmother she shouldn’t write to the Dean,: Gervais pointed out when Jors was in the saddle and there was nothing but open road before them.
:I know. I was afraid it would only encourage her.:
Gervais snorted. :You were afraid.:
:That too. But the last thing I need is Gran and the Dean starting up a correspondence.: Jors twisted and looked back toward the settlement. Annamarin must have reached the end of the track because he could just hear the geese protesting her return. This is what made me. He settled back in the saddle. This is what I am.
Birth family. Found family.
:Come on, let’s go home.:
The Watchman’s Ball
Fiona Patton
Although the winter solstice wasn’t for another fortnight, the nights had already turned cold, laying a tracery of frost over the streets of the capital like a veil of croqueted lace. Leaning against the counter of Ismy Browne’s saddlery shop, Sergeant Hektor Dann of the Haven City Watch sipped a mug of hot tea, noting the extra touch of honey with a smile.
“S’good,” he said. “Sweet.”
Ismy cast him a shrewd glance. “You looked as if you could use it,” she noted. “Late night?”
He nodded. “Stood the first watch. Would’ve stood the second, but Aiden made me go home.”
“Your brother’s a wise man,” she replied in a stern tone. “You can’t do a proper day’s work if you’re also tryin’ to do a proper night’s work.”
“They needed extra hands. It was the first night of the Watchman’s Ball.” When Ismy looked confused, he smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I forgot, only the Watch calls it that. It’s the first new moon’s eve before winter, an’ every year ‘round this time things . . .well, things happen.”
“What kind of things?”
“People runnin’ naked through the streets kind of things.”
“You mean like the Lightning?” she asked in an exaggerated tone.
“Like him, yeah.”
“Oh, please, Hektor, don’t tell me he’s actually real.”
“He’s real, all right. He’s been doin’ it for decades, but no one’s ever caught him. No one’s even got a good enough look at him to identify him, but every year we get dozens of reports of him all across Haven. The bet-tin’s four to one we’ll never catch him, an’ the Watch-houses bet each other on how many sightings we get every year, even every night. We had more’n seven on our patch this night last year alone. He’s a wily one, that’s for sure.”
“My granther used to say that he was as fast as a streak of lightning; that’s how he got his name,” Ismy noted. “He said he even saw him once at the bottom of Anvil’s Close. I used to peer through my bedroom shutters when I was a little trying to catch a glimpse of him, but of course I never did.”
“I did.”
Her eyes widened. “You did not? Really?”
He nodded, enjoying her reaction. “Once when I was first promoted up from runner to night watch constable. Uncle Daz an’ me saw him turnin’ the corner south of the Watchhouse, but by the time we got there, he’d vanished.”
“Anyway,” he continued, setting the mug down on the counter. “Da named these three nights the Watchman’s Ball on account of the Lightning leading us a merry chase all night long, you see?”
She nodded.
“Problem is,” he continued, “just the thought of seein’ him sends folk out into the streets, an’ some of ’em carry on and pull all kinds of antics an’ pranks in his name. It’s never been too much, but it’s getting a bit more every year, and the new Captain wants him caught.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Ismy agreed primly. “On a cold night like last night, he’d catch his death.
“And don’t you laugh at me, Hektor Dann,” she admonished as he gave her an amused look. “If he’s been doin’ it for decades like you say, he must be an old man by now.” She took up the mug, wiping the ring away with a flick of her cloth before pushing him toward the door. “Now, off you go to work. And no standing any night watch tonight either. You just leave that up to your younger brothers; that’s their job, not yours, Sergeant Dann.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right, I’m goin’.” He paused on the threshold. “Can I come by an’ see you after all this new moon’s nonsense is over?” he asked, suddenly hesitant.
She nodded, equally shyly. “Do you want to come for supper?”
“I’d like that.”
“It’s just stew.”
“I like stew.”
“And biscuits, you know.”
“I like biscuits too.”
“Good, well . . .”
They stood in awkward silence until the city bells began to toll the hour, then Hektor shook himself. “Good, well . . . supper. After. Yeah.”
He turned and headed quickly up the street, ignoring the older merchants leaning from their doors and windows. A few called out greetings, a few asked if he’d caught the Lightning yet, but most just smiled knowingly as Ismy watched until he’d turned the corner and disappeared from view.
There was a crowd of watchmen, both on duty and
off, gathered about the night sergeant’s desk when he arrived at the Iron Street Watchhouse a few moments later. It parted for him eagerly, but Sergeant Jons took his time collecting his reports and putting them into two neat piles before glancing over at the much younger Day Sergeant.
“Sergeant Dann,” he said formally.
“Sergeant Jons.”
“The night’s incident reports are as follows. Four counts of fighting. One outside the King’s Arms. You’ll know all about that one yourself, I expect, what with you and Aiden bringing ’em in yourselves. They’re still here, and the report’s are still to be filed. I figured since the Day Watch Sergeant made the arrest, the Day Watch Sergeant could do up the paperwork.”
He glanced over the report at Hektor much as a schoolmaster might, but when Hektor gave him an even look in response, he retidied his papers. A ripple of annoyance passed through the crowd of watchmen, which he pointedly ignored. “Where was I? Oh, yes, fighting,” he continued. “Two domestic disturbances. No charges laid and no one taken into custody although Holly Poll did throw a chamber pot at Constables Jakon and Raik Dann.” He waited until the general laughter and ribbing at Hektor’s younger brothers died down before continuing. “But since it turned out that she was actually aiming at her husband, they let her off with a warning.”
“Decent of ’em,” someone at the back shouted.
“Only ’cause it was empty,” Jakon groused.
“Only ’cause you’re scared of Holly Poll.”
The laughter erupted again.
“One count of burglary at the Hillman Mill,” Sergeant Jons continued in a louder voice. “Caught in the act. Silly fool was trying to lead out two donkeys at once with predictable results. Apparently he’ll be in hospital for another day or two.” He gave an unsympathetic sniff before continuing.
“Five counts of public drunkenness. Two of the combatants became . . .” He lifted his head, lips pursed as if to find just the right word, “belligerent, so the charges were raised to resisting arrest.
“Three counts of public urination, one of which led to an altercation with Corporal Wright when the suspect made his opinion of the arrest clear by attempting to urinate on him . . .”
Again he paused to allow the laughter to die down. “One count of sleeping on public property. That would be old Ivar,” he said in a quiet aside to Hektor. “He’s in the back having a good breakfast. Turn him loose whenever you like. After lunch maybe.”
Hektor nodded, and Sergeant Jons set the first pile of reports down with great ceremony. All eyes followed his movements as he lifted the second. “So . . .” he began, settling comfortably against his chair back. “Let’s us see now, the Watchman’s Ball reports. What to get to first, eh? Ah, yes . . .” He glanced up as the gathered leaned forward, waiting with a stern expression until they fell back into a sort of loose parade rest. “Clay Marcher’s gran and granther were at it again this year.”
“Runnin’ amok were they?” the same person from the back shouted as Constable Marcher’s face flushed red.
“Running amok, no, not at all,” Sergeant Jons answered. “Dancing amok, yes. Without benefit of clothing, again, yes. But they came quietly after the dance was done and were escorted home without incident. Clay, you might want to head over there on your break and retrieve Constable Farane’s cloak.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Right, where was I?” the sergeant continued before he could be interrupted by more laughter. “Fourteen sets of undergarments retrieved from various trees and fences, some of which were quite . . .” Again he lifted his head and pursed his lips as if to find just the right word. “Finely made. That’s up from ten sets last year in case anyone’s keepin’ score.” He pointedly ignored a number of watchmen exchanging money. “As no one ever comes forward to claim their property, they will be donated as has become tradition. I’m not sure to which temple this year.” He glanced up with a rare smile. “I think we’d best leave that up to the Captain.”
His words were greeted with a ripple of snickering and a number of surreptitious glances toward the Captain’s closed office door.
“Seven people apprehended runnin’ through the streets without benefit of clothing,” he continued.
The gathered leaned forward again.
“Students, the lot of them,” he finished to general disappointment. “Two of ‘em Bardic Trainees from the Collegium.” Again, more money changed hands. “All reclothed, lectured, and escorted home again. These incidents are also up this year by . . .”
“Two, Sarge,” Watchhouse Runner Padreic, Hektor’s youngest brother, supplied.
“Two.”
“An’ it took some doin’ to get the last one,” Raik noted sourly. “He climbed right up atop the statue of King Valdemar and got his stupid self stuck. Had to go up and fetch him down. Took the better part of an hour.”
“Just about froze his manhood right off him, the silly bugger,” Jakon muttered.
“Just about froze mine,” Raik added. “Had half a mind to leave him up there.”
“If I might continue before the Captain returns from his morning meeting with the Breakneedle Street Watch Captain?” Sergeant Jons said loudly enough to quiet them. “Sightings of the Lightning . . .”
All eyes turned expectantly.
“None.”
There was stunned silence.
“What? None at all?” Corporal Wright asked.
“None at all.”
The gathered slumped as if the air had been let out of them.
The entire capital passed the day in an air of dejection and speculation. Even those who had declared their disdain for the Lightning in the past were seen standing about with glum expressions. Much of the talk was of his past antics, and most agreed that nothing—not storms, not fog, and certainly not the Watch—could have stopped him. He must have been “topped.”
As Hektor and Aiden headed for a local pie shop at noon, the older of the two Danns shook his head.
“I s’pose that’s it then,” he noted.
“Two rabbit, thanks, Jess. What’s it, then?” Hektor asked, handing a pie over.
Aiden accepted it with a grimace. “The Lightning.” he declared, shaking his fingers to cool them. “He’s been showin’ up on the first night every year for . . . years, and suddenly nothing. He’s topped, like they say.”
“Makes sense.” Hektor blew on his own pie with a reflective expression. “Ismy says if he’s been doin’ it for that long, he must be really old. He probably is topped.”
Aiden grinned at him. “Ismy huh? So that’s where you snuck off to so early this mornin’. Ma was wonderin’.”
Hektor shot him a dark look. “Liar. I told Ma where I was goin’.”
“All right, I was wonderin,” Aiden admitted still grinning.
“I just wanted to see her before my shift, is all.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Aiden shook his head in disgust. “If you have to ask me, you didn’t ask her. I told Suli you didn’t have the bollocks. She owes me a pennybit. Do you two even have a proper understandin’ yet?”
Hektor frowned at him. “I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “I think so. She asked me to supper after all this was all done.”
“Well, that’s a start. Maybe she’ll ask for you.”
“Jerk.”
“Coward.”
“Eat your pie.”
“You gonna stand night watch?”
Hektor shrugged. “Probably. Some of it anyway.”
“Waste of time. He’s topped.”
“The Captain still has the extra hands on just in case.”
“Waste of money.”
“Maybe, but it’s not like we couldn’t use it. Beside, there’s all the other idiots runnin’ amok out there to deal with.”
Aiden finished his pie with a grimace. “Well, they better get it outta their systems early then,” he growled, a martial light growing in his eyes. “ ‘Cause come
midnight tomorrow, most of us are gonna be damned ugly.”
The rest of the day passed quietly, as if the entire capital were holding it’s breath, waiting for nightfall. Waiting to see if the Lightning would make an appearance or if he really was topped as most people believed.
Hektor arrived at the tenement house where he shared an upstairs flat with four generations of his family as the city bells tolled six. He figured he had just enough time to eat and catch a couple hours’ sleep before he was due back at the Watchhouse. Jakon and Raik, on regular night duty, should be up and out of the small bedroom they shared with him and Padreic by now. He took the three flights of stairs two at a time, already anticipating the bowl of his mother’s soup and his own warm blankets.
He met the local herbalist coming down.
“Sergeant.”
“Sir.”
“I’ve just been to see Thomar.”
Hektor felt himself grow still. “Oh?” he managed.
“Your granther needs to see a Healer,” the man said bluntly. “An actual Healer.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
The herbalist ran a hand through his hair in an impatient gesture. “He had a dizzy spell and a bit of a fall. Nothing too serious. A bump on the head,” he added as Hektor’s expression went from worried to alarmed. “Years of breathing in the droppings from those messenger birds of his has compromised his lungs, and a packet of herbs once a week isn’t going to be enough to set things right at his age. He needs to see a Healer, but he’s resisting.”
“He’ll say it’s too dear,” Hektor ventured.
“Rubbish. He’s just being a stubborn old fool. I say this in all respect, Hektor. I’ve known Thomar for forty years. He was friends with my own father as I was with yours, and I’ll tell you what I told him. He needs to see a Healer soon or he’ll die.” His voice dropped. “It may even be too late.”
He straightened. “I was sorry about Egan,” he added as he headed down the stairs. “I miss your Da, as I’m sure you all do.”
“Thanks.”
Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 27