Valdemar 06 - [Exile 01] - Exile’s Honor (9 page)

“At the moment, the best guess is that the incident has been completely suppressed,” Talamir replied. “There are no reports, not even rumors, from what our informants can tell us. We don't even really know which little village Kantor won him out of, they're keeping it so quiet. We
think
it's Sunsdale, because that's the only one that recently beat off bandits, but there's no word of anyone escaping the Fires from there.”

“It must be an acute embarrassment to them,” Sendar speculated. “Good. Let's hope it stays that way. I would rather they didn't have any more excuses to prod at us down there.”

“You have a talent for understatement, Majesty,” Talamir replied, rubbing his brow absently with one knuckle. “‘Prod' is not precisely how I would put it. But the mission you sent me on in the first place is a complete success; Joyeaus has got a Border-watch based on the old fire-watchtowers everywhere along the Border except on Holderkin lands—and there's enough overlap that nothing larger than a bandit troop is going to slip past, even there.”

“Then the damned, stiff-necked Holderkin can fight off their own bandits,” Sendar growled, “And may they wallow in their pride until they choke on it!”

Her father's outburst caught Selenay by surprise, and she directed a look of shock at Talamir. Talamir just raised his eyebrows in a silent signal that promised
I'll tell you later.
She nodded very slightly.

“Joyeaus promised that she can have word to Haven of
real
troop movements within half a day at the worst,” he continued. “It isn't just on our side of the Border that those old watchtowers exist. We can see theirs, and they can see ours, and there has been unofficial cooperation among the foresters for generations about alerting each other to forest fires.”

Sendar snorted. “Fire doesn't stop at the Border no matter how many guards you post.”

Talamir nodded. “The point is, of course, that we
can
see their watchtowers, and now ours will be manned in or out of fire season. And we've got one more safeguard in place. If one of our informants has a message too urgent to be sent by hand and he can get to one of the fire towers, he'll light a fire beacon or flash a mirror—on
their
side. Not a big one, or for long, but it will be a signal.
That
will warn the local highborn that something is coming, and from what direction, which means we'll have even earlier warning, if not the specifics.”

“Remind me to find some appropriate way to thank my idiot South-Border highborn for having the sense to cooperate with each other for a change,” Sendar growled, though to Talamir's ears, the “growl” sounded pleased and relieved.

“Remind me” actually meant “Talamir, go figure it out for me,” of course. This time, however, it was a request that had been anticipated from the moment that Joyeaus had gotten all of the heads of the noble families to sit down at the same table and begin ironing out their differences. That young woman had the most remarkable talent for diplomatic maneuvering and soothing ruffled feathers that Talamir had ever seen. A touch of Empathy helped, of course, but mostly it was a knack for saying exactly the right thing at the right time, and being exquisitely sensitive to interpersonal nuances. She'd been utterly wasted on riding circuits. . . .

“I'll see to it, Majesty,” Talamir murmured, glad that there was at least
one
small task that would be relatively easy to discharge.

Unlike the untimely arrival of that unlikeliest of Trainees. . . .

“Now, what about that tannery that Lord Wordercan wants to put in?” Sendar continued. “He's been nagging at me for the last week. I know it's something
he
wants, but I'm not sure the market can absorb that much more leather.”

Talamir bent his mind to the business of the Kingdom, allowing himself to put the matter of Trainee Alberich aside for the moment—untimely, unlikely, and oh so inconvenient as he was. . . .

A
LBERICH looked dubiously into the mirror at himself. The Healers had done a better job on his face than he ever would have thought possible, but nevertheless, he was scarred, and scarred badly. He looked as if someone had beaten his face with a red-hot whip several years ago. At least the scars weren't a livid, half-healed red, or he'd be frightening children and horses. His weathered tan had faded as well in the time he'd spent recovering, and he was thinner, not that he'd been carrying any extra weight before. His cheekbones seemed especially prominent, and his mouth—

He was wearing what was, apparently, the standard uniform for a Valdemaran cadet—

:A Herald-trainee,:
Kantor corrected.
:I don't believe that you will find that cadets and Trainees are at all equivalent.:

This uniform was very new, and in fact, had been made to his measure while he was still staggering about trying to get his strength back. Some strange little fellow had invaded his sickroom one day, asked him to stand, measured him all over, took tracings of his feet, and vanished again. Today, one of these uniforms had appeared, along with a gentle-faced Herald he didn't know, and Herald Talamir.

The cut and design of this uniform was identical to the Heralds' uniforms—well, all of the ones he'd seen other than Talamir's. The difference was the color—a dark gray. Alberich approved of that color; it was a great deal less conspicuous than spotless white. It also suited his own somber disposition.

“You cut a good figure,” Talamir said approvingly. “But then again, we don't often tailor a Trainee's new outfits to him; it would be a waste of time and effort, since most of them are youngsters, still growing.”

“This isn't the usual color for a Trainee,” the strange Herald (who had been introduced as Jadus) said apologetically. “We're apparently out of the usual materials at the moment, and I'm afraid that you're a bit larger than our run of usual newly Chosen, so you wouldn't fit into the old ones from the common stock.” The man was older than Alberich, approaching middle age, with sandy hair, and expressive features so open and honest that Alberich knew he would never hold his own in a game of chance. But the one thing that Alberich noticed most about him were his hands, graceful, flexible, strong, but not
powerful.
They were not the hands of a fighter, not even an archer.

The new Herald smiled and shrugged. “I suppose you're lucky, actually. When I say ‘common stock,' it's because the uniforms are all parceled out by general sizes. Hand-me-downs, to be honest, worn until they aren't fit to wear anymore, and cycled among all of those who wear the same size. We find that it's not a bad thing, given that highborns or their families might be inclined to embellish any uniforms that were actually their property, which negates the whole point of having a uniform in the first place.”

“Keeping to these, I think I will be,” Alberich replied, and shrugged. “Conspicuous already, I am.”

“True enough,” Talamir agreed. “And perhaps by making you a trifle
more
conspicuous, we will at least make it evident that we aren't trying to hide you.”

Alberich flexed his arms and legs experimentally. It might be new, but this uniform had been laundered several times to soften the fabric. Linen shirt, a fine pair of well-fitting boots, heavy canvas-twill trews and tunic. At least it was a comfortable uniform, practical and easy to move in. It could have been much worse.

He supposed that these garments would have to be made to take a considerable beating if they were to serve several sets of Trainees in their usual lifespan. Certainly Sunsguard Cadets were hard on
their
uniforms, and he doubted that Valdemaran boys would be any different.

:And girls,:
Kantor reminded him.

Talamir excused himself; he had, after all, only come along to effect the introduction of Alberich to Jadus. That left the two men alone, in an awkward moment of silence. Alberich stared at the older man, wondering what
he
saw. Alberich could no more disguise what he was than Jadus could disguise what he felt.

“So,” Alberich observed finally. “My keeper, you are?”

To his surprise, Jadus laughed. “Hardly that. No, actually, I'm one of your instructors, and since I have a smattering—a mere smattering, mind you—of Karsite, I was nominated to take you around to the Collegium, get you settled in, and introduce you to the rest of your instructors.”

Alberich tried to keep his expression a neutral one, but he still wasn't at all happy about this whole “Collegium” business.
He
was the one giving
them
a trial, after all—so why all this business of putting him into the Collegium? Why couldn't he simply observe, quietly, so he could make an informed decision about what he would do next? Why start him on classes, when in a moon or two he might be shaking the dust of this place from his shoes? It seemed to be an exercise in futility, and one that might have a negative effect on people who would be wondering how much effort they should put into teaching him when the next day he might be gone.

Yet even as he thought that, he wondered. As he recovered, he'd had several visits from the earnest young Gerichen, who seemed convinced that none of this had been an accident, that the Sunlord Himself was behind all of this for some inscrutable purpose known only to the One God. He was trying, in his own self-deprecating fashion, to convince Alberich of this notion. Alberich was in something of a quandary over this.

On the one hand, he had difficulty imagining
why
the Sunlord would choose to put one of His Karsite people in Valdemar as a Herald, when there were better candidates who were
born
here. Surely someone who was Valdemaran was a better choice! He'd speak the language already, he'd know all about Heralds and probably be thrilled to be Chosen, and there would be no question of his being accepted by other Valdemarans.

On the other hand, Vkandis did not move to interfere in the lives of His worshipers often, but when He did—there was a reason. And who was Alberich to try and understand or second-guess the motives and actions of the One God? That would be hubris of the worst sort. If a Sunpriest thought
he
saw the Hand of the Sunlord in this, he might be right. In that case, the wisest and best thing that Alberich could do would be to humbly bow his head and accept what Vkandis intended for him.

But Gerichen was young. He might be right; he might be divinely inspired, but he might well be merely enthusiastic.

As for “settling in,” that was proving far more difficult than any Valdemaran would be willing to accept. Alberich felt—well, he couldn't put a name to it. “Dislocated and adrift” was part of it; “unsettled” far too mild. “Utterly alien” came close, but didn't address the feeling of having no support beneath him. As if he were at the halfway point of a blind leap. It was far too late to go back, but he wasn't sure he'd land safely and he certainly didn't know what he'd find if he did. And that went for how he felt about the One God, too. For the first time, he'd had leisure to think about his religion and his own faith. He had questions. A great many of them. And none of them had answers.

For instance, if Vkandis wished to make peace between Karse and Valdemar,
why
not simply appear as He used to in the Great Temple? Why go to the trouble of having one single minor officer in the Sunsguard Chosen? It seemed an unreasonably convoluted path to follow to him.

But on the other hand—once again, the biggest stumbling block—who was
he
to be asking questions like that? He was only one man, one among many, who wasn't even a priest. How could
he
possibly know what was best for Karse?

But why had Vkandis Sunlord left His land to fester on its own for so long? What had happened to all the miracles, the appearances, of the ancient days? Where was the Sunlord, that he allowed his shepherds to turn wolf and prey upon their flocks?

He wrenched his mind away from the doubts and questions, and turned it squarely to face the here-and-now.

“You say, ‘the rest of my instructors,'” he repeated carefully. “And it will take how long to learn to a Herald be?”

If I ever wish to do so, that is. . . .
There was one clear answer to
why
this Jadus had been chosen to play guide to him. There was nothing intimidating at all about the man, and nothing of duplicity either. At least they were holding to their promise; they would let him decide for himself with no pressure on
their
part.

The Herald rubbed the side of his nose with one long finger. “For the usual Chosen, who come in here at about age thirteen or fourteen, and who are—lacking in a lot of skills you already have—it takes about five years. For you, though, I don't know,” Jadus replied honestly. “Nobody
will
know until we find out just how much
you
know, plus there is a very great deal about the Heralds and this land that you absolutely must know before you can serve in the field and—” He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if he had suddenly come up with a novel idea. “Actually, that may not quite be true. Something just occurred to me—and we might as well see if my option is a sound one right away.” The Herald smiled warmly. “Let's trot you around, Alberich, and see what comes of it. The person I want you to see is on the way to the Collegium anyway.”

“Well enough,” Alberich replied with resignation. “Lead, I follow.”

It was not his first excursion out into the grounds within the Palace walls, but it would be the farthest he had gone since he'd been encouraged to start leaving his bed. The Healers and his own caution kept him close to the building; he had not wanted to risk running into anyone who had the potential to be overtly hostile. He'd already had enough sour or sorrowful looks from some of the Healers and Healer-trainees he'd encountered. Once it was widely known that he was Karsite, well—no one was claiming that Valdemarans were without prejudice or incapable of holding a grudge, though in this case, he could hardly blame them.