Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar (31 page)

He’d left a lot of his gear in Devin with his leathers and the mule—the cattleholdings were barely a day apart and he’d intended to spend a day in each and end up back in Devin—but heading out with Erika, he’d packed against sleeping rough. A sheepskin for insulation against frozen ground and two felted wool blankets to keep out the cold.

First, he looped the rope half a dozen times and carefully worked it under the bandit girl’s body, tucking her one arm up to her side, securing it against her ribs, then threading the end of the rope through the loops and pulling it snug. He had to slide her onto the sheepskin or she’d freeze, but he wanted her ribs to shift as little as possible while he did it.

Tenting one blanket around them almost sent him over the edge when he leaned out to anchor it with arrows jammed into cracks in the rock face. In spite of the best efforts of the wind to blow everything off the ledge, he finally had her safely inside a triangle of felt, his pack keeping the blanket up off their faces, one corner flipped back just enough to keep the air fresh and allow a beam of weak gray light. He pushed the second blanket between his body and the cliff, then wrapped it around them both. The bandit girl wasn’t exactly in his arms, but Jors couldn’t have fit a horsehair between them given the width of the ledge.

“I knew you’d come for me.” Her voice was weak, thready, but their faces were barely a handspan apart. She licked at the blood on her lips and nearly smiled. “I’m your prisoner, then.”

Jors wanted to say no, knew the answer was yes, and said instead, “Are you in much pain?”

“My heart hurts. And if yours does not, then you lie in spite of your pretty clothes.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Her eyes met his. “I’ve thought of nothing but you since I first saw you.”

He shrugged as much as their position allowed. “I’m a Herald and you are . . . ”

“Yes.” When she laughed, she choked a little and he slid his arm behind her head to help her breathe. “I am paid for my wicked ways,” she said at last. “But I wonder what you’ve done, Herald, that the Goddess treats you so badly.”

“She sent me to save you.”

“From this?”

“From this as well.”

“As well?” Dark brows rose. “You’re late, Herald. Years and a great deal of wickedness late.”

“I’m sorry.”

When she sighed a trickle of blood ran down to mat in her hair, a dark line against the curve of her cheek. Jors caught it on his thumb. “I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t what?”

“Sorry. Not for anything I’ve done. It was ...” She paused long enough Jors thought she might have drifted into unconsciousness again. Then she swallowed and continued. “ . . . an exciting life. Just after the ledge drops down to the riverbank, there’s a cleft.”

It took him a moment to follow the change.

“It opens into a box canyon,” she continued slowly. “We have a base there. My cousins . . . You could take me to them.”

He actually considered it. Discarded it. “No. I couldn’t.”

“No, you couldn’t. You’ll choose your pretty clothes over me.”

Jors wiped the blood away again. “I couldn’t move you safely the rest of the way down the cliff, and I have no way to get you to the cleft or into the canyon or to your cousins without making your injuries worse.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Ah,” she said at last. “So you don’t have to choose your pretty clothes over me.”

“It’s not the clothes . . . ”

Her free arm rose and punched him weakly in the arm. “Idiot. I know.”

She sounded so exasperated with him that he laughed and bent his head to touch his face to her hair, breathing in her scent. “You said you weren’t sorry,” he whispered against her hair.

“What?”

“Weren’t.”

She made a soft chuff of sound that might have been a laugh. “You caught that? I may be a little sorry now.” Her fingers closed loosely around his wrist. “Tell me about you. Tell me all the things I don’t have time . . . to find out.”

“You should rest.”

“I can rest and listen. I don’t want ...” Her fingers tightened. “I want to be with you for as long we have.”

“We’ll have . . . ”

“Herald!”

“Jors.”

“Jors.” She said his name like she was telling him something she’d always known. “Please. Tell me . . . ”

So he talked. Told her about growing up in the forest. About the day he’d looked into sapphire eyes and known the forest was no longer his life. About getting his Whites. About the Demon’s Den. About the charcoal burner’s child. He talked and he looked into her eyes and he cataloged every expression, storing them safely away.

Finally, when it had gotten so dark he could barely see her, she lifted her hand to his cheek and he paused.

“Mirgayne,” she said.

“What . . .?”

“My name, you idiot.” He could hear the smile he couldn’t see. “You never asked.” Her fingertips were cold against his skin. “Seems I’ll be punished for my wicked ways.” When he started to speak, she moved her fingers across his mouth. “Will you wait for me?”

He swallowed, nodded, and said softly. “I’ll wait.”

“Good.” Her fingers slipped down to lie on her chest.

“A little sorry,” she said, and closed her eyes.

It was very, very dark on the ledge.

 

Jors felt almost beside himself as he climbed up off the ledge, as he helped Erika bring Mirgayne’s body up, as they rode back to the cattleholding. He told the other Herald about the box canyon and the bandits’ base and had nothing else to say. He knew Erika watched him all the long way back but she let him ride in silence. Gervais was a constant presence in his mind; Jors kept his eyes locked on the gleam of white that was his Companion’s head so he couldn’t see the darkness all around.

They laid the body out in a corner of one of the barns.

“This is the beginning of the end for them,” Erika said quietly. “Even if Truth Spelling the others gives us little else, we can take their base in the canyon. It’ll be a wedge driven in to weaken them enough we can clear them off the road. It’ll save a lot of lives.”

Jors pulled Mirgayn’s braid out from under her back, laid it gently along her arm, then pulled the blanket up over her face. When he stood, Erika closed a hand over his shoulder.

“Are you all right? When something like . . . like this happens . . . ”

No one had said the words
life-bond
. No one ever would.

Jors shook his head, shook himself out from under Erika’s hold, and moved blindly out of the barn until his hands touched familiar warmth and his arms wrapped around a familiar neck.

“My heart hurts,” he said.

And he wept.

A Bard by Any Other Name

A crisp autumn breeze whispered along the capital’s quiet thoroughfares as Sergeant Hektor Dann of the Haven City Watch read the words splashed across the mill wall in as neutral a tone as possible. Nevertheless, the mill owner who’d reported the “vandalism” to the Iron Street Watchhouse first thing that morning softened his customary scowl just long enough to squint up at the brightly painted green letters with an expectant expression.

“Pause fer what?” he demanded.

Hektor just shrugged. “I dunno, sir. A longer kiss, maybe?”

“Humph. Maybe.” The mill owner crossed his arms over his chest. “This be, what, the fifth time The Poet’s struck in as many days?” he asked, content now to discuss the situation once he’d had his curiosity about the poem’s meaning satisfied.

Hektor nodded with a resigned expression. There was no point in trying to pretend that the rash of verses appearing on walls all over Haven in the last week wasn’t the talk in every shop, tavern, and private parlor across Valdemar’s capital city. The citizens had dubbed the mysterious author “The Poet,” and there was wild speculation about his identity and purpose. Less wild was the speculation on how long it would take the city’s watchmen to find him. Hektor’s youngest brother, eleven-year-old Padreic, himself a Runner with the Iron Street Watch, and a depository of all news and gossip since being promoted two months ago, had reported that local betting stood at three to one against them finding him at all.

“And you lot still have no idea who he is, I suppose?” the mill owner sniffed.

Hektor sighed inwardly. “We’re making inquiries, sir.”

“Don’t seem to be getting too far with ’em, it seems to me.”

“They’re coming along, sir.”

“Well, just you come along a little faster or I’ll be sending you the bill to get this cleaned off.”

“You’ll be removing it soon, then, sir?” Hektor asked, eyeing the crowd of people that had begun to gather around The Poet’s latest work.

The mill owner’s expression softened. “Well,” he allowed. “Soon enough I suppose.” His lips moved a little as he reread the words scrawled across his property. “He’s not too good, is he?” he noted after a moment’s reflection.

Hektor just shrugged. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Cause there’s not too many roses bloomin’ at this time o’ year. An’ them vines be ivy, not roses.” He sighed. “Still, it makes you think about things for all that, I suppose. You know, love and the like. It’s been some years since Haven had a really good poet to boast of.” He rubbed at his bearded cheek with a thoughtful expression, then shook himself brusquely. “And I reckon it’ll still be a few more years ’til we do,” he decided.

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Pining breast, eh? They’re not getting any better, are they?”

Corporal Aiden Dann was waiting in Hektor’s office when he returned to the Watchhouse. Not at all surprised that The Poet’s latest work had beaten him back there, Hektor threw himself into his chair, upsetting a pile of reports sitting precariously on the edge of his desk.

“No,” he answered glumly as he bent to retrieve them.

“Kinda reminds me of some of those scribblings of yours I found under the mattress when you were thirteen. Remember when you were first courting Ismy Smith? And here you are showing interest again. An’ here’s The Poet spoutin’ off about rapturous gazes.” Aiden fixed his younger brother with a penetrating stare. “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night, Hektor Dann?” he demanded sternly.

“Shut up, Aiden.”

“You’re right. Your poems were far worse. It couldn’t have been you.”

“Don’t you have a beat to walk,
Corporal
?” Hektor hazarded, trying to sound more in command of his older brother than he ever had been.

Aiden just showed his teeth at him. “No, I don’t,
Sergeant.
The Captain’s set me to help you. Apparently he’s got a bet on with the Breakneedle Street Watch Captain that we’ll find The Poet before they do. So ...” He made himself comfortable on the edge of Hektor’s desk, upsetting the pile of reports once again. “What do you figure? Think he might be a Bard? Some of them are pretty ...” Aiden scratched thoughtfully under the collar of his gray and blue watchman’s uniform, searching for a word that wouldn’t be too insulting. “ . . . flowery.”

Hektor glanced down at the scattered reports, then just let them lie there. “They’re all denying it,” he answered. “An’ they’re better’n this. An’ they don’t write on walls,” he added.

“He’s used up a lot of ink by now. Maybe we should go talk to an inkmonger. See if anyone’s bought up a big supply lately.”

Hektor shook his head. “He’s writing in paint, not ink,” he corrected. “An’ paint’s not sold, it’s mixed special as needed by the artists themselves.”

“So you figure The Poet’s an artist then?”

“Probably a muralist by the looks of it.”

“We don’t know any muralists,” Aiden pointed out.

“No, but we do know an artificer. Maybe he knows a muralist.” He stood. “Why don’t you go check out the studios near where the first poem was found? I’ll go talk to Daedrus.”

Aiden gave an amused snort. “So, I’ll be telling’ Ma that you’ll be late for dinner then?” he noted.

Hektor sighed. “Yeah, you might better,” he answered.

 

“My dear boy, what a lovely surprise! Come in, come in!”The retired artificer waved Hektor inside his brightly lit but very narrow hallway with a beaming smile. “Now, now, Pebbles, don’t go growling at the Watch, it’s rude. My niece’s dog,” he explained. Hektor cast a concerned eye at the heavyset white bulldog glaring suspiciously at him from under a long side table covered in clocks and timepieces. “She’s a Fledgling Healer. My niece, not the dog, of course. Pebbles stays with me for an afternoon or two each week as my niece can’t always take a dog along on rounds. But enough of my days; I couldn’t possibly make them sound interesting to a young man of the Watch, could I? So, come in and tell me to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit.

“My children, look who it is!”

An explosion of singing from a dozen ornate bird cages greeted Hektor as he followed Daedrus deeper into the house. The old man’s front room was even more cluttered than it had been the last time he’d visited. He negotiated the piles of books, scrolls, drawings, blueprints, maps, lanterns, candles, tools, and odd pieces of metal and wooden machinery with care until he was pulled up short by the sight of two well-dressed people, one a young woman in pale green Healer’s robes, the other a tall, older man garbed in scarlet, seated together on Daedrus’ overstuffed settee.

“Forgive me, sir, I didn’t realize you had guests,” he stammered.

“Nonsense, my boy,” the old man waved a dismissive hand at him. “This is my niece, great-niece actually, Adele, who I’ve just told you of, and our cousin, Master Musician Hiron of the Bardic Collegium. Adele, Hiron, may I present Sergeant Hektor Dann of the Iron Street Watch, a particular young friend of mine. Now, we are all known to each other and we shall take tea and young Sergeant Dann can regale us with his adventures keeping the mean streets of Haven safe and sound.”