Choices

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Thank you, ma’am, but we have operatin’ money on hand.”

  “Then you coulda sprung for more biscuits.”

  He sighed. “I’ll send him out again.”

  “You do that.”

  Brandin and Paddy returned, their faces flushed with both excitement and mischief, just as Kriss headed out with the ten pennies clutched triumphantly in his fist. Morag snatched the bag of sweets from her great-grandson and counted them suspiciously.

  “Thought I tol’ you not to touch nothin’ else?”

  “I didn’t,” he protested. “Ever’thin’ in the box is still there.”

  “An’ these sweets?”

  “Were on yer dresser. An’ we only had one each.” When she continued to stare at him, he grinned. “Mebbe two each.”

  “Yer a little . . .” she began, and then smiled. “Tyver. Give me my bag.”

  He handed it over.

  She rifled through it, muttering to herself, while the crowd leaned forward in hushed anticipation. Finally she drew out a small wooden key, the shaft twisted to resemble a screw. She stroked it lovingly with one finger, then held it up.

  “Looks a bit small,” Hydd noted. “You sure it’ll fit?”

  Morag turned an ice-cold stare on him, and he fell back a step. “You tellin’ me my business, boy?” she demanded.

  “Uh . . . no ma’am.”

  “Good thing.” She returned her attention to the key. “So many years,” she murmured. “Used to wear this little treasure around my neck. Never took it off ’til years later. Not ’til after Albie passed. He was a good man, a bit wild, but I liked ’em wild in them days. Must say, I still do.” She made to say something else, but after a glance at Paddy and Brandin, snapped her teeth shut in annoyance. “Anyway, in you go, little one.” She fit the key into the left-hand lock and turned it gently. The lock opened with an extra loud crack in the silence and, as one, the gathered gave an involuntary gasp.

  “Well, that’s mine.” She sat back, her expression turned inward again.

  After a moment, Hektor coughed. “Ma’am?”

  “Hm?”

  “Were you going to open the right-hand lock?”

  “I would if I had the key, but I don’t. Connon always carried that one.” She smiled a little sadly. “He was a fine musician, my big brother was. Not Bard fine, of course, but fine enough to suit me. He played the gittern. I used to get him to play for me when I was a little. He knew all kinds of songs.”

  Her smile grew sly as she ran her fingers along the crest. “An’ that’s why no one coulda ever got into that right-hand lock. No one ever knew the secret of it ’cept us. An’ Sara, a’ course. Or Sonya. Damn, I wish I could remember that blasted girl’s name.” She sighed. “She got involved when our brother Iffan died. That’s when it started; for us, anyway;,wantin’ justice for Iffan. Or maybe revenge. Prob’ly revenge.”

  She shook herself. “But that’s the past. The present’s about to run up an’ bite us on the ass if I know that lot up there, so we’d best be quick. You, boy.” She gestured Paddy over. “Go find a Bardic student, not a Bard, they’re too . . .” Paddy leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. “Just too,” she finished. “Long as they play the gittern an’ as long as they’ve got their tools with ’em, get ’em to come with you. Tell ’em there’s a story in it for ’em. That’s all the motivation they’ll need. And hurry up,” she called after him as he headed through the crowd. “Time’s short. We don’t wanna miss openin’ this thing after all the fuss it’s caused.”

  Hektor frowned. “Why would we miss openin’ it?”

  She waved a dismissive hand at him. “Why isn’t my tea ready?” she retorted. “A body could die of thirst around here.”

  “It’s comin’.”

  “Good boy. Egan, isn’t it?”

  “No, ma’am. Hektor. Egan was my Da.”

  “Hmff. There’s too damn many of you to keep track of.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It only took Paddy a few minutes to return with two young women in tow, each toting instruments that Hektor assumed were gitterns in soft, leather carriers on their backs. Before he could introduce them, one of them smiled.

  “Hey, Auntie Morag. You wantin’ a concert?”

  “Later, Peggi dear. Who’s this?”

  “My friend Sally.”

  “Either one of you have your tools with you?”

  “Always,” Sally answered promptly.

  “I need a string winder.”

  Both women immediately produced small L-shaped cylinders and Morag smiled as the gathered crowd murmured their sudden understanding of the crest.

  “In plain sight,” she chuckled as she slid Peggi’s into the right-hand lock and spun it counterclockwise. The lock opened with another extra loud crack, and Morag reached for the lid as everyone leaned forward.

  Inside was a small, leather notebook, a tiny pencil attached to the spine by a short length of wool, and two large piles of papers and letters tied together with faded ribbons.

  Brandin rocked back on his heels, his expression deeply disappointed. “S’at all?”

  Morag snorted. “What’d you expect?”

  “Well, gold an’ jewels an’ stuff like that.”

  She chuckled again and, reaching in, pried a piece the lid’s inner lining free to reveal a leather bag that chinked when she held it up. “You mean like this, maybe?”

  The assembled murmured excitedly, but before she could reveal the contents, a commotion at the front door made her straighten.

  “That you, Seran?”

  Watchmen, smiths, and workmen alike parted to reveal a tall woman in her early forties, dressed all in white.

  “Seran passed away some years ago,” she answered, moving through the hushed crowd with consummate grace. “But I trained under her in my first year. My name is Ivy.”

  “Herald Ivy, you mean.”

  “Just so.”

  “Yer late.”

  “Too late, I see. You probably shouldn’t have opened that so publicly.”

  Morag snorted. “It were public the moment it came outta that wall. This way everyone’s curiosity’s been sated.” She glanced at Paddy who was eyeing the papers with a gleam in his eye. “Well, nearly everyone’s. What do you think, boy, should we read ’em out loud?”

  “Morag, they carry the state seal,” Herald Ivy admonished gently.

  “Ah, so they do. But this don’t,” Morag held up the notebook. “This carries Connon Tyver’s name, his life, and Iffan’s death . . . and so long ago that what went on won’t matter to anyone anymore ’cept his family. We got a right to claim it, after all we did.”

  “The Tyvers were invaluable,” Ivy agreed. “The world is a safer place now thanks to all the people who stepped up in Valdemar’s hour of need. We have to examine the notebook; you know that, but I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power to get it back to you.”

  “What about them gold and jewels?” Mertin now demanded, pushing forward. “There should be a finder’s fee.”

  “And there may be,” Ivy said, a hint of steel finally entering her voice. “But that’s for the Crown to decide.”

  “Mystery’s solved,” Morag added, cutting off the murmur of dissent. “You all know who the box belongs to now and what’s in it.” She slapped the lid closed. “So get to your own business, all of you, it’s near dinner time.”

  “Who’s gonna clean up that street out there?” Linton demanded, refusing to wilt under her cold stare.

  “Well, it ain’t gonna be me and it ain’t gonna be you, Linton Kray,” she shot back. “So, you just leave it to those whose job it is.” Waving Brandin forward, she stood with his help.

  “I’ll let you know how much my services cost,” she told Hek
tor as Herald Ivy took charge of the box. “Send the boy there with my payment.” She gestured at Paddy, then leaned toward him. “When you come, bring some of them biscuits and there may be a story in it for you.” She winked at him, and he grinned.

  “Morag,” Ivy warned.

  “Oh, hush, Seran. There’re some things that need to remain secret and some things that need to be passed on. The younger generations have to be prepared to step up if that world ever comes back again. You can trust the Tyvers to know which is which. For that matter, you can trust the Danns too, for all they are interferin’ little busybodies.”

  She turned. “That was fun, Hektor. You can call on me anytime. Give my love to Tansy.”

  “I will, ma’am.”

  The crowd parted as Morag Vinney, the best charm-dubber in Haven, left the Watch House, then slowly broke up, heading for their own homes through the layers of construction debris still littering the street.

  Jazper turned to Eban. “We gonna check other walls?” he asked.

  His older brother grinned. “’Course, we are. But tomorrow. Ol’ lady’s right. It’s near dinner time. Ma’ll be waitin’.”

  He tipped his hat toward Jemmee, then headed out.

  Hektor glanced at the dust still covering every surface, then followed, the rest of his family falling into step behind him.

  Acceptable Losses

  Stephanie Shaver

  The Quarry

  There should be more blood.

  Wetness spread across Wil’s face, but when the Herald reached up to touch it, he found only water from the puddle he’d landed in. He sprawled across scree and rubble, gravel biting into his palms.

  There should be more blood.

  Whose, exactly?

  Smoke poured out of the mine entrance and filled the quarry with a pewter-gray haze. His nostrils stung with a mix of smells. Some unidentifiable—the acrid chemical that mixed with the explosion when it tore open the shaft. Some hideously familiar—the smell of burning bodies.

  Wil staggered to his feet, reassembling the moments of the last candlemark. Death on both sides. The heat and chaos of something like Griffon’s Firestarting Gift, but not. And when he tried to reach his Companion—

  :Vehs?: he thought.

  No answer.

  :Vehs?:

  The bond remained unbroken, but the silence yawned between them.

  :VEHS!:

  The Waystation

  :Stop yelling, Chosen, I’m right here!: Vehs said.

  Wil bolted up in his bed, gasping from his vision. Turning, he looked to see if he’d woken Ivy, but thankfully, his daughter slept soundly in her own boxbed. Or maybe she didn’t. He knew sometimes she faked it.

  :Aubryn thinks she’s sleeping,: Vehs informed him as Wil stumbled out of the Waystation and into the bright morning light. It took a few grinding thumps to get clear water running from the pump instead of rust brown. He made a mental note to let Cyril know.

  Assuming we ever see each other again . . .

  He shoved the thought aside.

  They were in the foothills of southern Valdemar, amid hardwoods that had been part of the Pelagirs centuries ago. They’d since been tamed thanks to the Hawkbrothers and simple farming. The Waystation sat between villages, a sturdy, well-provisioned structure that stood against the seasons and wandering critters, artfully hidden by foliage.

  :Is Aubryn eavesdropping on my daughter’s dreams?: Wil asked, splashing cold water on his brow.

  :They . . . talk.:

  Wil paused. Aubryn watched over his daughter while he rode Circuit, but they were not bonded in the way of a Herald and her Companion.

  Yet.

  :Is there something I should know?: Wil asked.

  :Is there something I should know?: Vehs shot back. :How many more times will you wake up like this? Some things you can’t shield from me. Your Gift is careening off the trail again. What’s going on?:

  Wil grimaced. They had left Cortsberth a month ago, riding southwest toward the Baireschild holdings. They were closing in on Madra, Lord Dark, and their weapons cache.

  And, as always seemed to happen, his Gift of Foresight had caught on to the impending threat that entailed.

  Danger! it screamed. It roiled in his gut and woke him up with visions both insanely detailed and maddeningly light on details. The only place it didn’t find him was . . .

  A Waystation, but not to be found in Velgarth.

  :Chosen?:

  Wil exhaled slowly. :I’m tired, Vehs.:

  He felt a surge of comfort travel down the bond between them. :It’s been a long road.:

  :This is not a kind Gift to have. When Lelia was alive, she could—:

  Wil stopped before he could relitigate this line of thought. Lelia’s Bardic Gift hadn’t been able to lull him to sleep for over half a decade.

  :I’m sorry, Chosen.:

  Wil shook his head. :Anyway. We have visitors coming today.:

  A note of surprise. :We do?:

  :It’ll be Lyle and Rivan.:

  :That’s—! Wait. How long have you known?:

  :A couple of days. I expected them to contact us sooner, but Lyle’s Mindspeech isn’t very good, and Rivan’s probably focused on riding. If the visions are right, they’re not alone—I’m just not sure who’s with them.:

  The Queen knew he needed support and, after what happened in Highjorune, that the Guards couldn’t be wholly trusted. Lord Dark and Madra’s false Bards could be anywhere, infiltrating anything.

  An army of Heralds would be ideal. He also knew that to be about as likely as Vkandis Sunlord showing up for tea.

  A sick stone of intuition tumbled in his belly whenever he thought about Lyle’s arrival. With every oscillation, the worry grew.

  Like picking at scabs. It never heals.

  :Chosen?: Vehs’s worry didn’t help, either.

  :I’m just tired. Weeks of this. My sleep hasn’t been good. I’m ground down.:

  :But Lyle will help, yes?:

  :Sure.: Lyle had been Wil’s intern. They’d ridden Circuit together, fought wars together. And not for nothing, Lelia had been his twin sister. Ivy loved her uncle.

  And it will be good for Ivy to have family to take care of her if—

  Another thought Wil closed down before it could grow roots.

  The Waystation door popped open, and Ivy emerged, her dark hair sticking out in a marvelous display of bedhead.

  “Good morning, liebshahl,” Wil said to his daughter.

  Ivy yawned. “Morning.”

  Out at the clearing’s edge, the Companions whinnied. Ivy waved back.

  “What’s for breakfast?” she asked.

  “Butter on a stick,” he replied, not missing a beat.

  “Dada.”

  “Baked horse apples.”

  “Ewww!”

  “Stale bread and cheese rinds,” he said at last, which earned him a groan. She was growing up far too fast for his comfort.

  “That’s the joy of life on Circuit, liebshahl.” Being around his father in Cortsberth had brought back words from his childhood. He remembered how his sister Daryann had smiled on the rare occasions their father lavished praise on them in the form of Karsite terms of endearment.

  Daryann. She’d been gone since before even Lelia’s time—an older ache, that one.

  Wil walked over and put one arm around Ivy, kissing the top of her head. For a moment he held her, and she grew a little still—a small miracle, at this age.

  At least we had this time. Please let her remember it with happiness, someday.

  She laughed and squirmed away, running off to collect the morning’s bouquet of sourflowers.

  “Come back inside for a reading lesson,” he called. “And a rubbish breakfast.”

  “Okay!”
<
br />   Maybe that’ll take my mind off things, Wil thought.

  But he knew better.

  The Quarry

  Wil staggered around the quarry, trying in vain to reach his Companion.

  :Vehs?:

  Now he pinpointed what was wrong. It wasn’t a :Thought:, just a regular thought. He could still sense his Companion, but the steady background hum of connection between them—a channel he associated with his Mindvoice—had been supplanted by perfect silence.

  Wil wiped tears out of his eyes. The odd, acrid perfume clung to the back of his throat. His head swam, and his eyes and skin stung.

  A figure emerged from the smoke, face concealed behind a beaked leather mask.

  “Hey—” he started to say.

  The figure pushed up her mask, and Madra’s icy eyes glowered at him.

  “You,” she said, spitting the words with a mix of hate and confusion. “Why aren’t you dead?”

  The crossbow cradled in her arms hummed.

  There should have been more blood.

  The Waystation

  “‘Bat’ and ‘rat.’ They rhyme. Why?”

  “Hmm . . .” Ivy squinted at the words on the page. “They have the same buh-buh-buh sound.”

  Wil rubbed his shoulder, as if by doing so he could ease a pain it had yet to earn. The stone in his belly had grown roots and spread across his back and into the back of his skull. He would be its marionette soon enough, a creature driven by fear and worry, and he needed to do something, but he didn’t know what. Trying to teach Ivy to read hadn’t helped.

  :She’s not ready.:

  Aubryn’s voice. Unlike Vehs, the Companion wasn’t a joker; she exhibited a steady calm and grew easily irritated by tomfoolery.

  :Sometimes I wonder why you volunteered to watch a child,: Wil replied.

  Her response came back measured and solemn. :Because we needed each other, Herald.:

  And he remembered the terrible loss she’d endured—the kind that usually killed Companions.

  :Aubryn—I’m sorry—I—:

  :Jaylay and I were destined. And a Chosen destiny is a broad stroke, as broad as birth. Little brush strokes, like the unfortunate patch of ice that took his life—that can escape even one who is Gifted with Foresight, such as you. Companions can and do survive loss and go on to Choose again. Perhaps I will, too.: