Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Moving Targets
An Unexpected Guest
The Power of Three
What Fire Is
Dreams of Mountain Clover
The Cheat
A Dream Deferred
The Sword Dancer
Broken Bones
Live On
Passage at Arms
Heart, Home, and Hearth
Haven’s Own
Widdershins
Raves for the Previous Valdemar Anthologies:
“Fans of Lackey’s epic Valdemar series will devour this superb anthology. Of the thirteen stories included, there is no weak link—an attribute exceedingly rare in collections of this sort. Highly recommended.”
—The Barnes and Noble Review
“This high-quality anthology mixes pieces by experienced authors and enthusiastic fans of editor Lackey’s Valdemar. Valdemar fandom, especially, will revel in this sterling example of what such a mixture of fans’ and pros’ work can be. Engrossing even for newcomers to Valdemar.”—Booklist
“Josepha Sherman, Tanya Huff, Mickey Zucker Reichert, and Michelle West have quite good stories, and there’s another by Lackey herself. Familiarity with the series helps but is not a prerequisite to enjoying this book.”—Science Fiction Chronicle
“Each tale adheres to the Lackey laws of the realm yet provides each author’s personal stamp on the story. Well written and fun, Valdemarites will especially appreciate the magic of this book.”
—The Midwest Book Review
NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY available from DAW Books
THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR
ARROWS OF THE QUEEN
ARROW’S FLIGHT
ARROW’S FALL
THE LAST HERALD-MAGE
MAGIC’S PAWN
MAGIC’S PROMISE
MAGIC’S PRICE
THE MAGE WINDS
WINDS OF FATE
WINDS OF CHANGE
WINDS OF FURY
THE MAGE STORMS
STORM WARNING
STORM RISING
STORM BREAKING
VOWS AND HONOR
THE OATHBOUND
OATHBREAKERS
OATHBLOOD
THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES
FOUNDATION
BY THE SWORD
BRIGHTLY BURNING
TAKE A THIEF
EXILE’S HONOR
EXILE’S VALOR
VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES
SWORD OF ICE
SUN IN GLORY
CROSSROADS
MOVING TARGETS
Written with LARRY DIXON:
THE MAGE WARS
THE BLACK GRYPHON
THE WHITE GRYPHON
THE SILVER GRYPHON
DARIAN’S TALE
OWLFLIGHT
OWLSIGHT
OWLKNIGHT
OTHER NOVELS
THE BLACK SWAN
THE DRAGON JOUSTERS
JOUST
ALTA
SANCTUARY
AERIE
THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS
THE SERPENT’S SHADOW
THE GATES OF SLEEP
PHOENIX AND ASHES
THE WIZARD OF LONDON
RESERVED FOR THE CAT
And don’t miss:
THE VALDEMAR COMPANION
Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little
Copyright © 2008 by Mercedes Lackey and Tekno Books
All Rights Reserved
DAW Book Collectors No. 1457
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).
eISBN : 978-1-101-49434-9
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
First Printing, December 2008
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
S.A.
http://us.penguingroup.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“Moving Targets,” copyright © 2008 by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
“An Unexpected Guest,” copyright © 2008 by Nancy Asire
“The Power of Three,” copyright © 2008 by Brenda Cooper
“What Fire Is,” copyright © 2008 by Janni Lee Simner
“Dreams of Mountain Clover,” copyright © 2008 by Mickey Zucker Reichert
“The Cheat,” copyright © 2008 by Richard Lee Byers
“A Dream Deferred,” copyright © 2008 by Kristin Schwengel
“The Sworddancer,” copyright © 2008 by Michael Z. Williamson
“Broken Bones,” copyright © 2008 by Stephanie Shaver
“Live On,” copyright © 2008 by Tanya Huff
“Passage at Arms,” copyright © 2008 by Rosemary Edghill
“Heart, Home and Hearth,” copyright © 2008 by Sarah Hoyt and Kate Paulk
“Haven’s Own,” copyright © 2008 by Fiona Patton
“Widdershins,” copyright © 2008 by Judith Tarr
Moving Targets
by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon
Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels, including the best-selling Heralds of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator.
Larry Dixon is the husband of Mercedes Lackey, and a successful artist as well as science fiction writer. He and Mercedes live in Oklahoma.
Herald Elyn refrained from tearing her hair out. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to these four. They’d been assigned to her in a bunch when they’d all first been Chosen. They’d gotten into trouble in and around Haven as a group, and now, four years later, it would have been reasonable to assume that this foursome was beyond being able to surprise her.
It would be reasonable to assume that. Reasonable, but, unfortunately, wrong.
Elyn stared at the wagon, hoping it was a hallucination. It wasn’t.
It was a traders-caravan built to the specifications of a rich man with vague notions of “the romance of the open road.” So it was big, big enough that it took two stout horses to pull it. Expensive leaf springs sandwiched between wishbone axles peeked from behind carved, bent-wood coachwork. It was luxuriously appointed within. And without.
It was yellow. Bright yellow. And there were flowers painted on it, scrolling around the windows and door. The roof was red.
Elyn groaned silently. Heralds were supposed to try to be inconspicuous. Hard enough when you were wearing a white uniform that screamed: “I’m the Herald! Shoot me first!” But with this? They’d look like a lot of traveling actors. Or clowns. Would people even believe they were Heralds and not just entertainers dressed up as Heralds?
“We could have it repainted,” said Trainee Laurel helpfully, gleefully gesturing at the wagon and then standing with one hand on her hip. “In fact, we probably should. White, with a blue roof. And with the crest of Valdemar on the side. The people would love that!”
Elyn had to admit that she was probably right about that last part. Laurel was a pretty thing with abundant red hair, kind hearted, with a formidable Gift that was from some place in the Empathy family. She could make a
nyone like her and want to do what she wanted. Fortunately, she had a strong code of ethics. Unfortunately, she tended to think the best of everyone . They’d quickly learned not to allow her any say in judgments after she pleaded in favor of a violent murderer, who had been caught literally red-handed, by saying that his mother didn’t think he’d do that kind of thing.
Repaint it white. As if that will make us less of a moving target? At least no enemy would ever take this wagon seriously. “We don’t have time,” Elyn said, truthfully. “It would have to be sanded down to the bare wood. Otherwise, everything else will bleed right through.”
“Blue. Dark blue. Solid dark blue, no decorations. I already have the paint, and I rounded up the workmen,” Trainee Alma said as she trotted up with two of the palace carpenters in tow, each of them carrying two buckets of dark blue paint. “I calculated it very carefully. One coat will do it. Night Blue cut one-to-three with Sky Blue has a drying index of six candlemarks, with a twelve-candlemark cure, and has an unprimed saturation well within limits. There will be plenty of time for it to dry before we leave tomorrow.” She waved a clipboard of papers and punctuated her statement with a firm nod that proclaimed that questioning her figures was inadvisable under pain of explanation. Boyish, bookish Alma had been an Artificer-in-training before she had been Chosen; she made up for Laurel’s lack of practicality and then some. Strong-willed, rock-steady, and blindingly intelligent, she was always searching for the most ordinary explanation for the extraordinary. She also had no discernable Gift. Elyn sometimes wondered if that was because Alma herself had not yet mathematically proven she had one.
“Aww. Do we have to paint it?” Trainee Arville asked plaintively. “I think it’s nice.” He was the tallest young man Elyn had ever seen, but you would never know it, because he was always slouching. He always looked a little unkempt. Not dirty, but untidy. Except when in his Whites, he could only be found in faded earth-tone field-laborer clothes, none of which seemed to be his size even if they were. Elyn knew he didn’t do it out of carelessness or because he was slovenly. It was as if everything he put on immediately had a mind of its own, and that mind was half-asleep.
His Gift was as powerful as Laurel’s and as odd. It was a rare Gift and extremely difficult to train for. Luck. He could trip and fall and come up not only unhurt, but clutching something useful, important, or occasionally even valuable. He was almost never hit during fighting practice, not because he was good but because his opponents always made inexplicable mistakes. Small children and animals adored him.
“Yes, Arville, we do,” Alma said firmly. “Otherwise no one will take us seriously.”
The fourth member of the quartet shrugged. “I doubt Father would care if we painted it pink,” Trainee Rod pointed out. Laurel opened her mouth to speak, but when Elyn shot Laurel a look that said don’t even think it, she decided against it. Rod continued. “I doubt he even knows what color it is now. He probably just threw money at a bunch of coach-makers and said, ‘Build me the best traveling van anyone has ever seen.’ What matters is that the horses he sent along are terrific.” Trainee Rod ... or rather, Rod’s father ... was wealthy enough that he could do things like that. Rod should have been spoiled rotten. He wasn’t. Rod’s father should have been livid that he was Chosen, but he wasn’t. Guildmaster Fred-rich of the Goldsmith Guild was so proud of his son that he nearly burst every time he looked at the young man. Then again, that handsome boy, blond and blue-eyed, certainly had a face and body that seemed created to wear a Herald’s Uniform.
And Rod certainly did not have the head to be a Goldsmith, much less a Master, and even less a Guildmaster. His younger brother had seemingly inherited all the real cunning in the family, as Rod had inherited the looks, so when the Big White Talking Horse showed up, it was actually a relief all around.
Not that he was stupid; he just wasn’t nearly intelligent enough to succeed in the business as his father had; he was certainly no match for his brother or Alma when it came to feats of outright logic, and he only had a casual consumer’s understanding of market forces. But he was clever about mechanical things. Most importantly for a Herald, he was absolutely determined to do the right thing and doggedly persistent about seeing that it got done.
As more than one senior Herald had remarked to Elyn, together the four made one perfect Herald. But then again, how many “perfect” Heralds were there?
Most of us just bumble along trying to do the best we can.
She knew perfectly well why the four of them had been assigned to her. Her patience was legendary, and these four needed legendary patience.
“All right Alma, that solution will probably work. Please go ahead and repaint the wagon, gentlemen,” she continued, addressing the workmen. Then she turned to the four ill-assorted soon-to-be-Heralds. “And you lot, get packed, get your new Whites, and get some sleep. We have a long way to go, and I doubt very much that any of you has ever had any experience in driving a wagon.”
They all shrugged sheepishly. She snorted. “Something Rod’s father did not think about. Fortunately, I have. And before this is over, each of you will be an expert in everything from harnessing to fixing a broken wheel singlehandedly in the pouring rain.”
From the shocked looks on their faces, she could tell that all they had considered was that they were going to have a nice, comfortable, warm place to sleep on this circuit, rather than having to camp in the open or find themselves crammed five into a Waystation made for two at most. It had never occurred to them that a wagon and its team were objects that required care and repair, which was one reason why Heralds seldom used them. Usually, when Heralds needed a wagon, they hired one on, driver and all.
The only reason she was even considering using this rolling house was because this circuit was all in farming country. Flat, level land for the most part, plenty of forage for the horses, and good roads. It was something of a choice circuit to get if you liked things to be mostly uneventful. She’d gotten it on this trip precisely because she had four, rather than one or two, to nursemaid through their first year in Whites.
And hopefully, by the time they got to the section of the circuit that bordered on the Pelagir Hills, it would be late enough in autumn that any trouble from there would be tucking itself up to hibernate for the winter.
And if it isn’t inclined to hibernate ... She squared her shoulders and headed for the suite of rooms she shared with them. Well, that is when we find out what these four are made of—and if I did my job.
Elyn pulled at her earlobe a little and stared at the wagon. For once, Alma had miscalculated, it seemed—or else the pigment in that paint wasn’t what she had thought. A single coat of blue paint had indeed been applied evenly and thoroughly over the entire wagon yesterday, with the end result being that the wagon now was blue ... more or less. Not so much a Heraldic blue as a shade resembling water, or a bird’s egg, or the sky under certain conditions. And the vines and flowers had bled through too. It was less garish than it had been, but the effect was still ...
“Oh how pretty!” Laurel enthused. “I was afraid it was going to be dull!”
Alma passed both of them with her bags; she rolled her eyes but said nothing as she stowed her things in the storage boxes built into the side.
Elyn had taught them well enough that they got their gear put away and were in the wagon before a single candlemark had passed. Not without some minor bickering, but there was always minor bickering any time adolescents did anything. Elyn was used to that. The question looming largest in her mind, however, was who to single out to learn how to drive first.
She pondered that as she guided the horses down the road reserved for trade, which was a good bit wider than the one Heralds usually took out of Haven. She was glad they had gotten underway so early. She really did not want anyone to see her driving this ... thing.
The Companions trotted alongside freely, with their stirrups hooked up onto the pommels of their saddles. No point in leaving them bare. The
tack would take up too much space, and compared to the usual weight of a rider, the saddle was nothing. She saw to her amusement that Alma alone of all of them had done exactly what she had; Alma’s Companion, like Elyn’s, carried bulging saddlebags. After all, why not? Without the weight of a rider—
:You turn us into packmules.: Mayar sounded more amused than annoyed.
:If you have become a “mule,” my dear, you should ask to see the farrier about your little problem before your ladyfriends complain. There may be special treatments.:
:Do get your mind out of the gutter, will you? I have to read it.:
Elyn snorted and gathered up the reins for the two-horse hitch. A wagon like this did not strictly need two horses, but having two would enable them to move along at a reasonable pace.
Once they were clear of Haven itself, she knocked on the little door behind her with her elbow. Alma opened it.
“Rod!” she called through into the interior of the wagon, “Get out here. Time to learn how to drive.” The wagon and horses were his father’s gifts, after all, so he might as well be the first one to learn the job. Alma cleared out and Rod’s sunny expression replaced hers.
As he squeezed through the little door and maneuvered himself onto the little sheltered spring-dampered bench where the driver sat, Elyn reflected that whoever had bought these horses definitely did know his horseflesh. They weren’t matched, but they were both solid and compact little draft horses of the sort known as Zigans. The right side was a bay gelding with a white nose, the left a chestnut mare with a white blaze. Both had one white foot, with heavily feathered fetlocks. Both had stocky bodies, about a hand taller than the average riding horse, and both were about six years old. Their manes and tails were shaggy and long, and their coats were too rough to ever be glossy, but they were mild tempered and willing, and disinclined to be spooked by anything they’d seen so far.
Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 1