Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  The Right Place

  Louisa Swann

  Petril crouched in the back corner of the last stall in the run-down stable, surrounded by mouse nests and owl droppings, and tried not to breathe.

  Why, oh why, did I ever want to be a hero?

  He actually thought he’d become that hero . . . sort of. He had risked life and limb battling evil, after all.

  A high whinny sent his heart leaping into his throat. Petril could feel the baby’s distress, but he didn’t know what to do. All he knew was he couldn’t get caught. If he got caught, there would be no one left to help his stall mates—a Shin’a’in mare and her foal. The ones he’d saved from kidnappers what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Hush,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. He reached up and stroked the foal’s neck, trying to calm the little one down. Bella gave a low whicker, as if understanding the need for quiet.

  Ya’d think someone who saved a Shin’a’in mare and her foal would be fed sweet pies and given soft beds ta sleep in and have Bards singin’ ’is praises.

  But . . . no. Ever since he’d left home over a month ago in the company of Fritz—an ancient carter with wrinkles as deep as Lake Evandim and eyes like black obsidian—things had been . . . different. There’d been an occasional meat pie, but mostly he’d been fed some sort of boiled meat he couldn’t identify and could barely choke down.

  His bed had been the hard ground beneath the cart with a worm-eaten wool blanket to wrap around him.

  And there had been no Bard—or anyone else for that matter—singing his praises, not since leaving home, anyway. The only praises he’d received lately had been a nicker from the mare when he’d thrown her a flake of hay last night.

  “I told you—that boy stole my horse. I’m here to reclaim both her and her foal.”

  The man who spoke not only sounded ugly, Petril knew from experience he was ugly—on the inside anyway, though his outside looked presentable enough. Ugly enough to beat innocent animals to a bloody pulp.

  And now he was accusing Petril of being a thief?

  Yer tha one wanted this, he reminded himself, resisting the urge to lift his head so he could see over the battered partition—slightly shorter than he was tall—separating Bella’s stall from the next stall over. Tha one what wanted ta see new lands and go adventurin’.

  So far, that adventurin’ had involved shoveling manure and loading carts, leaving him feeling like a harpooned sturgeon after a long, desperate fight for its life by the time day was done. He barely had enough strength left to curl up in his blanket, and as soon as he did, it seemed it was time to get back up and do it all over again.

  Petril was willing to work—work was a fact of life for fisherfolk. He’d been fixing nets and helping the womenfolk for as long as he could remember, and he was old enough—and strong enough—to harpoon his own sturgeon. With a little help from the other men.

  No, work wasn’t the problem. But he hadn’t expected the man he’d been working for to up and disappear.

  Leaving his eight-year-old apprentice behind.

  In a strange city.

  Without a word as to what Petril was to do with the mare and her foal (he’d named them Bella and Sunfish), or as to how he was going to get home.

  Life had ended up more tangled than a fishnet after a storm.

  He scanned the stall, struggling to find someplace to hide in the filth lining the floor along the partition walls to either side and along the back. He already knew the search was useless. Except for a small rat hole in the far corner (and yes, he’d made friends with the rats), there was nothing but dirty straw.

  He’d tried to clean things up as best he could when they’d first arrived, but the straw he’d found to replace the filth he’d removed had scarcely been any better.

  Petril drummed his fingers against his leg, frustrated at not being able to see exactly what was going on. He listened intently, straining to catch the sound of footsteps.

  All he could hear were voices mumbling near the stable’s front door. The voices raised.

  “You want proof? I’ve brought a guard. Isn’t that proof enough? Now take me to my horse.”

  Petril shivered. He would recognize that imperious voice anywhere.

  He hazarded a quick look over the partition wall. A tall, lanky man with dark, shoulder-length hair stood in the wide door leading into the stable, cast into shadow by the sun riding high in the noonday sky.

  And next to the Tall Man stood a man in fancy trousers and grand cloak.

  Lord Fancy Pants.

  The man who beat horses.

  Another man, just as lean as the first but not as tall, stood slightly behind the others, looking like he’d rather not be there. The guard?

  The stable owner, a brutish man with arms the size of trees, held a hand toward Lord Fancy Pants the same way he had the night Fritz had rented the stall. “No going inside without payin’,” he had said. A man big enough to make sure no one broke his “rule.”

  Petril sank back into the straw and tried to think.

  The acrid stench of aging manure and overripe urine stung his nose and burned his eyes. He scrubbed them with his fists, suddenly feeling as young as his five-year-old sister. He hadn’t been gone from home all that long, yet it felt like forever.

  He’d never felt so lost. Or so alone.

  All his life he’d dreamed of battling pirates and raiders to save his village, or maybe even becoming one of the king’s spies (there were always spies in stories about kings and queens) and saving the world.

  Not one of those dreams had involved hiding in a dirty stable trying not to get thrown in prison or killed. He glanced at the rear door—on the far side of the building.

  All ye have ta do is run faster than an osprey on the stoop, stay quieter than an owl on the hunt, and be braver than a . . . a Herald in battle. Easy-peasy, blue gill breezy, Petril told himself.

  He swallowed a snort. He could be quiet—he’d practiced sneaking up on his sisters and brothers, even his da, over and over until he could move without making a sound—but that kind of stealth required slow, careful movements. Every time he’d tried to move both quickly and quietly, he’d made more noise than a kiddie learning to swim.

  Ye cain’t even save yerself, he grumbled. How ye ’spect ta save the world?

  He didn’t need to worry about the world right now, though. Bella and Sunfish were the ones needing saving.

  An owl hooted softly overhead. The mare nudged Petril’s arm with her nose, as if trying to tell him something.

  He’d shared pain with that mare. Shared her terror and her fury.

  He’d thought all that behind them, but it appeared Fate had something else in store.

  “I’ve got ta git help,” Petril said, the words practically sticking in his throat. He didn’t want to leave the mare and foal behind, didn’t want to venture out of the relative safety of the stable into the confusion that called itself a city.

  They’d passed through large villages as the carter traveled from Lake Evendim to Haven, but nothing had prepared Petril for what the old man called “the hustle and bustle of city types.” When they’d first arrived, Petril had been so overwhelmed by the people and noise, he’d wanted to run screaming back home. He had lived through violent thunderstorms and fierce snows. Those were but a whisper in the dark compared to the tumult that had greeted them.

  At least things quieted down at night—a mite. Instead of crickets and hooting owls and gently lapping waves, there were mumbling voices of those who never slept, the clank of guards’ weapons as they made their rounds, raucous laughter from nearby inns, stomping animals in the stable itself, and sudden cries of those unlucky enough to be caught by the ones who did their dirty deeds beneath the cover of night—

  “I know you’re in here, boy.”

  Petril jerked up
right.

  “Come on out, boy,” Lord Fancy Pants continued. “No one’s going to harm you. We’ll clear up this little misunderstanding and you can go home.” The words echoed through the building.

  Home.

  The man sounded reasonable, in both word and tone, but Petril knew better. A baited hook was still a hook, no matter how tasty the bait.

  The owl hooted again. Bella shuffled restlessly, and the foal let loose another whinny. Sunfish knew something was wrong. So did Bella.

  Could they tell he was scared?

  She probably smells my fear, Petril realized. Just as she smelled the ones who’d kidnapped her.

  As they’d traveled, he’d found out that Bella was not only smart, she had a memory as long as a sturgeon’s. If a sturgeon ever survived an encounter with a harpoon, that fish would never come near another boat.

  Not only had Lord Fancy Pants kidnapped the mare, he’d whipped her bloody and caged her foal.

  No, Bella wouldn’t forget.

  Neither would Petril.

  Bella stomped a rear hoof and Petril bolted to his feet, remembering at the last minute to keep his head low. Sitting next to an angry mare was asking to get tromped into fish food.

  His stomach felt like a dozen fingerlings were trapped inside, struggling to get out. He couldn’t stay here. He needed to get help.

  Memories swam through his mind, the sound of cracking whips and heavy blows. The scream of frightened horses. Pain exploding through his head when Lord Fancy Pants bludgeoned Bella with something he’d called a “blackjack.”

  Lord Fancy Pants wasn’t here to help anyone. Petril knew it. Bella knew it. Even little Sunfish sensed that evil was about.

  Alarm fluttered in Petril’s mind. Not the blind panic he’d felt the first time he’d experienced another animal’s pain. This was more of an alertness as something—the owl?—prepared itself to flee.

  He didn’t know why or how he felt the animals’ emotions. At first, he’d only felt pain or fear, the kind of emotions he’d shared with Bella while trying to save her. During the trip, however, he’d been able to sense when the foal got into what Petril’s mum would call “an impish mood.”

  He had practiced, trying to control how and when he sensed the animals’ emotions. He’d focused thoughts at Bella so intently, he’d given himself a headache. Once he’d even ended up with a bloody nose, though that was probably because he’d run headfirst into a tree. He’d been so focused on trying to “communicate” with the mare, he’d walked right off the path and had come nose to trunk with a leafy elm big enough to wrap his arms around.

  He was pretty sure the tree hadn’t felt a thing. His nose, however, had gushed like a stream during spring melt.

  Again, that sense of alert awareness washed through his mind, bringing his focus back to the troubles at hand. Petril steadied himself on his feet. If the owl flew low enough, caused enough of a distraction, maybe he could get away. He imagined running like lightning, ducking out the back door, and vanishing like a bat in the night.

  “Jus’ do what he says,” Petril whispered to Bella. “Don’ git yerself hurt none. I’ll git hep and git back here afore ye can sneeze.”

  Bella snorted as if to prove him wrong, but Petril didn’t have time to chide her for it. He caught a glimpse of the owl as it swooped from the rafters.

  A moment later, Lord Fancy Pants let out a howl that made the hair on Petril’s arms stand on end.

  Now!

  He bolted from the stall, keeping his head down as he ran as fast as he could toward the back door.

  He hazarded a glance down the main aisle as he ran and almost tripped over his own feet when he saw the owl digging sharp talons into Lord Fancy Pants’ hair. The owl flapped hard and soared away, carrying tufts of brown with him.

  Lord Fancy Pants clapped a hand to his head. He must’ve caught sight of Petril at the same time. “There he is! Don’t let him get away!”

  Petril tucked his chin to his chest and made his legs move faster. He was a deer, bounding through the woods, trying to escape the arrow headed his way.

  The door loomed before him, larger than he’d remembered. He put both hands forward, intending to shove through it, then remembered the latch. He slid to a stop, grabbed the latch and yanked on it.

  The latch didn’t move.

  Petril’s mouth suddenly felt drier than a cleaning stone left in the sun. He pried at the latch handle, glancing frantically at the men headed toward him, guard in the lead. The guard’s lean face wore an exasperated expression. Was the man frustrated because he’d been called on to chase down a boy?

  The latch finally popped open with a loud clack. Petril shoved through the door and slammed it shut, then raced down the alley between buildings, ducking to the left, then the right, keeping his moves as unpredictable as a scared rabbit.

  A turn to the right dumped him into a square stuffed with people and wagons and critters of all kinds, from donkeys to horses to animals he’d never seen before. A haze of dust drifted around the people, carrying with it the stench of sweat and ripe animal dung.

  Petril froze, trying to figure out which way to run. He got a quick impression of surprise followed by curiosity and turned to find himself looking up at a creature almost as tall as Bella, with a shaggy coat and the face of a . . . rabbit? The creature tilted its head to one side, then the other as if trying to figure out exactly what he was.

  Footsteps pounded in the alley he’d just left.

  “Got ta run!” Petril told the creature and took off into the crowd, not caring which direction he went.

  He wasn’t small for his age, but he wasn’t all that tall either. It would be hard to find him in between all these people.

  Wouldn’t it?

  He slowed to catch his breath when he reached the public fountain and found himself in line for a drink.

  A mite o’ water wouldn’t hurt me none, he realized. He turned slowly as the line shifted forward, scanning the people as the crowd surged around them like a stream around a boulder.

  He felt that sense of curiosity again and glanced back toward the rabbit-faced animal just as the crowd parted way.

  Letting a guard with a face like a winter storm come through.

  “Sorry,” Petril muttered as he ducked behind the woman in front of him. “Beg pardon.” He mumbled to another.

  He stumbled over a basket filled with vegetables, then darted behind the fountain, crouching low so he wouldn’t be seen. He duck-walked along the back side of the fountain until he reached a horse trough at the far end, then rose into a crouching run.

  When he reached the end of the horse trough, Petril sat on his haunches and tried to see between the legs of the crowd. A woman who looked round enough to roll through the square sniffed at him and swished her skirts to one side as if afraid he might be contagious.

  No one else seemed to notice him. Or maybe they’d just decided he wasn’t worth their attention.

  A break in traffic let him see the buildings on the far side of the square. What looked like an enormous inn stood directly in front of him, its door wide open as if to invite passersby.

  Petril heard the rumbling wagon as it moved past the trough. Casting a look over his shoulder, he darted between the wheels and then under the wagon bed, managing to keep pace with the wagon. He forced himself to breathe the dust-laden air, fighting off the feeling that he was about to drown.

  Jus’ two more steps, he promised himself.

  Ye’ll be run over before ye can get shed o’ the wheels, a little voice whispered in his mind.

  No. He’d made it this far. He’d make it to . . .

  Petril’s gaze fastened on the door to the inn, still open and inviting. He took a deep breath, strangled on a cough, and dashed out from under the wagon.

  He thought he heard someone shout as he ran,
but didn’t look back.

  His thoughts spun and twisted like spider weaving a web as he frantically tried to come up with a plan.

  Could report Fancy Pants to the guards . . . but the guards were already with Lord Fancy Pants.

  Who could he turn to, then?

  Who would be willing to help an eight-year-old boy from Lake Evendim?

  A thought flashed through his mind as he ducked through the inn door, rolled under one table, then another, ignoring the curses shouted overhead, and dashed out the back door.

  He found himself in another alley and turned right.

  He had to find a hero, Petril thought suddenly. He had to find a Herald.

  * * *

  • • •

  As if Fate had once again listened, Petril spotted a woman dressed in white sitting along a wall in a small square, a small metal box sitting beside her.

  This square was quieter than the public square he’d just left. An inn—smaller than the one he’d raced through—sat on the other side of the wall. Flowers of varying colors danced among the bushes too regularly spaced to be natural.

  He had to get her attention. Get her to listen to him. Petril chewed his lower lip as he thought about what he should say—

  He froze, heart in his throat, and wondered if he’d ever breathe again. The idea swimming through his mind like a wall-eyed trout caught in a whirlpool was totally bonkers.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with anything else.

  If he didn’t get someone’s attention, someone who would actually be able to help, Bella and Sunfish would be taken away by Lord Fancy Pants and who knew what would happen to them then.

  Petril studied the small metal box the Herald had set to one side. The woman seemed to be tinkering with something else, though Petril couldn’t tell what it was.

  What’re ye waitin’ on? Petril asked himself. The sun won’t set no quicker.

  He tried to remind himself that this was what he wanted—to be a hero.

  But somehow what he was about to do didn’t feel very heroic. It felt . . . desperate.