Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar v(-105

by Mercedes Lackey

  Were he making a song of this, it would be Healer Hedion who held them all together and gave them their purpose. But in fact it was Gaurane who was their leader—Gaurane who would not be called “Herald Gaurane,” whom Meran had never seen entirely sober, who refused to acknowledge the Companion who followed him everywhere like an exceptionally large and very white dog. Gaurane’s story would make such a song as would be any Bard’s Master work.

  Except Meran didn’t know the tale and had never asked. Elade, who had joined them a moonturn later, had asked (Elade had a knack for asking inconvenient questions, which had gotten her turned out of her Free Company), but if she’d received an answer, Meran didn’t know it. How Gaurane and Hedion had met, why Gaurane could not Hear his own Companion, why Rhoses was content to follow his Chosen along the Border rather than seeking help for him, why, if there was Healing to be done, Hedion didn’t do it—all were mysteries Meran was content to leave unplumbed.

  It was only at times like this, when the Summerfair merchants’ bright and glittering wares lay spread for display like the fabled treasure-cave of the legendary Queen Lilyant of Bai, that Meran spared a thought for the life he’d once thought to live. Even Elade was drawn to the splendor along the street of merchants, though her eye was caught by the table of blades, while Meran lingered before the scentseller’s booth. He wondered if he could persuade Elade that oil of violets was a necessity vital enough to expend some of their scant resources upon.

  A woman stepped up to the table, and Meran drew back courteously. He did not truly intend to buy, after all, and it was only polite to leave room for those who did.

  As the two women, buyer and seller, dickered over the price and kind and quality of the wares, Meran let his gaze and his attention wander. The street of merchants was only a very small part of Summerfair. For the truly exotic and the truly costly, one must seek out Haven’s Harvestfair or the shops of her High Street. Summerfair was for the farmers and holders of the south. It sold horses and mules, pigs and chickens, cows and goats, and it was also a hiring fair, for harvest was coming, when every hand would be needed. Meran had known nothing about the farmer’s year when he’d left Haven; since then he’d come to know it ran opposite to the year the townfolk kept. Spring was for planting and autumn was for harvesting. Winter was for doing all the tasks of making and mending there was no other time for. But summer was a time of near leisure.

  With a practiced ear, he followed the sound of the bargaining, paying no real attention. Its cadence told him the transaction was drawing to a close when a new note was added to the song.

  “Here, mistress, let me hold that for you.”

  Meran turned toward the speaker. Young, dressed in clothing that was plain but of good quality, with something of the look of Iftel to him--no odd thing, when Valdemar lay open to any who wished to live in peace. He smiled as he held out his hand, and the farmwife placed a plump sack of coins into it.

  Meran was about to turn away again—so the woman had a manservant; there was nothing odd in that—when he saw the young man step smoothly away from the table, tucking the money pouch into his tunic as he did. Meran would have raised the hue and cry, or even moved to stop him, were it not that the woman gave no indication anything was amiss. In a moment, the young man had disappeared into the crowd.

  “My purse! Where is it?”

  The indignant cry behind him summoned Meran’s attention again.

  “Help! Thief! I’ve been robbed!”

  “It didn’t make any sense,” Meran said, a candlemark later. “I watched her hand him her purse. And a moment later, it was as though she’d forgotten she had.”

  They’d found Gaurane and Hedion at the aleseller’s nearest their lodging. There was always someone willing to rent space to travelers who had not provided their own accommodation. On the Border, they could always find an inn or a village to lodge them in exchange for a song or two if it was not giving them lodging for Hedion’s sake. Here, entertainment could be had for the asking, but beds required coin.

  “Maybe they were working together,” Elade said, sounding puzzled.

  “Fairs are made for thieving,” Gaurane said. He took a long pull from his tankard of ale and sighed appreciatively. “Thieves everywhere.” He tipped it up again, draining it, and reached for Meran’s cup.

  “There’s a whole pitcher of ale in front of you,” Meran said indignantly, whisking his cup out of reach.

  “Yes,” Gaurane said. “And if I drink it, it will be gone.”

  “I’ll buy you another one,” Meran said. Then kicked himself when Gaurane smiled beatifically.

  “Good lad. I knew I could depend on you.”

  “She handed him her purse. And then she said she’d been robbed?” Hedion frowned, clearly still trying to make sense of the puzzle.

  Of the three at the table entitled to wear the colors of one of the schools of the Collegium, only Meran was dressed in accordance with his rank. Everyone—even Elade—had been firmly against Hedion wearing his Healer’s tunic here. Summerfair was supposed to be a holiday for all of them, Hedion most of all. Even now—a full sennight after the last Mindhealing he’d performed—Hedion’s face was pinched and drawn, and he clenched his hands to stop their constant trembling when he thought no one saw. Meran knew, without having to be told, that left to himself, Hedion would pit his strength against the impossible task he’d set himself until he dropped from exhaustion. No one man could stem the tide of damage the Karsite demon-callers caused. But Hedion Mindhealer would try. If not for Gaurane, Meran knew, Hedion would have broken beneath his burden already.

  “She swore someone must have taken it,” Meran said. “The scentseller told her she’d handed it to her servant—”

  “But she swore she had no servant,” Gaurane finished, in the tones of one who knows how the tale ends.

  Meran nodded in agreement. “She was quite indignant about it, too,” he said dryly.

  “So he could hardly have been her partner,” Hedion said. “She loses her coin, she doesn’t buy the scentseller’s wares, and the man escapes. A mystery.”

  “The only mystery I’m interested in solving is how long I am to stare at the bottom of my tankard before it is full again,” Gaurane said.

  It was certainly a mystery, but hardly one they were likely to solve. The Heralds of Valdemar were charged with keeping the peace and meting out justice, but Gaurane insisted he was no Herald, Rhoses’ presence notwithstanding. Meran doubted the man still owned a traveling uniform, much less a set of formal Whites. As for Rhoses’ saddle and silver-belled bridle . . .

  . . . there were some things it was better not to wonder about.

  No, they could hardly look to Gaurane to hunt their quarry. But Meran disliked thieves. It was one thing to steal when you had to steal or starve—he’d done that often enough, before Bard Meloree found him. It was another thing to steal for sport or out of greed. The man he’d seen with Mistress Theret’s purse looked well fed (and clean, which was more to the point), and his clothes had been of good quality and in good condition.

  “If you want to be a Guardsman, I’m sure they’d take you on,” Elade said in a low voice.

  “You didn’t have to come with me,” Meran answered.

  “Easier than buying you out of the stocks. Gaurane would complain about the waste of coin, and Hedion would worry.”

  “If you can get Hedion to worry, you’re doing better than Gaurane is,” he said absently, his gaze never leaving the crowds around them.

  “Hedion worries,” Elade said. “As long as it’s about somebody else. I’m sure even you notice that.”

  “Point,” Meran said.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for—or rather, he did know, but he wasn’t sure he’d see it. Anywhere there was money, there was thievery, but the style of thievery varied from city to countryside. There might be a few cutpurses working a crowd like this, but it was unlikely the experts at that craft would travel all the way to Goldend
ale to ply their trade. Here you were more likely to find snatch-and-grab artists, horse traders selling spavined nags as sound, or even an old-fashioned mugging or two. What he’d seen the day before didn’t fit any of those categories. It was trickery, but what kind?

  “There. See him? That’s the man.”

  Meran kept his voice low—though there was no possibility of being overheard in the crowd’s noise—and nodded toward a pieseller’s stall. As he watched, the same man he’d seen yesterday walked up to the table and pointed toward the shelves. The pieman reached back and took down a pie. He handed it over, smiling. Though Meran watched closely, he did not see any money exchanged.

  “Wait here. I’ll get him.” Elade took off like a hound that’s suddenly seen a rabbit break cover.

  The man dropped the pie and bolted. He and Elade vanished into the crowd.

  Meran sighed. Not the way he would have done it, but he had no doubt Elade would catch their culprit. Then they could ask him what he’d done with Mistress Theret’s purse. Since there was no chance of catching up to Elade, he settled himself to wait.

  It was half a candlemark before Elade returned. She was alone.

  “I can’t believe he outran you,” Meran said.

  “What?” Elade asked blankly. “Oh, no. I caught up to him quickly enough. But he said he wasn’t the man I was after, so I let him go.”

  For a long moment, Meran stared at her. “He said he was innocent, and you believed him?”

  Elade simply stared back at him, looking cross. Then her eyes widened, and she looked utterly horrified.

  “Come on,” Meran said, sighing. “It’s time to consult an expert.”

  There was no place in all of Valdemar where a Herald and a Companion would not be made welcome. In fact, there were several Heralds at Summerfair, for one of a Herald’s duties was to hear disputes and give judgment, and another was to keep the peace, and those whose circuits brought them near the great fairs made sure to attend them.

  The only time things became awkward was when one traveled with a Companion whose Herald flatly refused to acknowledge himself as a Herald.

  They found Rhoses with three other Companions in an open space behind one of the larger pavilions. One of them was probably with a Herald Trainee on Progress, while the other two would be the Companions of the Heralds working the fair. In his time at the Collegium, Meran had become used to the sight of the dazzling white creatures who held the peace and safety of Valdemar in their charge, but no matter how much the Herald Candidates insisted they were easily distinguishable, he’d never been able to tell one Companion from another.

  But it was certainly Rhoses who came walking over to them, ears pricked forward in curiosity. When he reached them, he nudged Hedion hard in the chest.

  Hedion staggered backward. “Oh, not you too?” he said.

  They’d had to find Hedion before coming for Rhoses. While Rhoses could hear them perfectly well, it would be a rather one-sided conversation, since no one but Hedion could hear him.

  Not even Gaurane.

  A pause. “I am!” Hedion protested. “Here I am, doing nothing at all!”

  Meran had gotten used to listening to only half a conversation in the past several moonturns. It had never stopped him from being curious about the half he couldn’t hear.

  “You know him better than I do,” Hedion said darkly. “Come on, then.”

  Rhoses tossed his head, and once again Meran had the sense of a conversation taking place just beyond the range of hearing. Rhoses walked forward, and Hedion fell into step beside him. Few of those the little party passed gave them a second glance. Before he’d left Haven, Meran would have thought it impossible for anyone to mistake a Companion for a horse. But many of Valdemar’s citizens never saw a Companion at all—and many of those who did were woefully unobservant, at least in Meran’s opinion. A Bard was trained to observe, so that the things they saw could be used to add life and heart to the songs they crafted.

  “You see,” Meran said—he’d quickly learned to speak to Rhoses in the same way he’d speak to Hedion, “we’ve run into something a bit odd. There’s a man here at the fair with the power to make Elade change her mind.”

  Elade thumped him—hard—in the shoulder with her fist.

  “Ow,” Meran said ruefully, rubbing the bruise. “And that part isn’t the problem. But he’s a thief. And I’m not sure how he’s doing it.”

  “ ‘A Bard should know all the Mind Gifts.’ ” Hedion translated Rhoses’ reply. “ ‘Even if he is a mere Journeyman.’ ” A lifted eyebrow conveyed the irony Meran couldn’t hear.

  Meran bowed mockingly without breaking step. “I did pay attention to my teachers, you know. All I can tell you is what it isn’t. Not Mindspeech, not Farspeaking, not even Overshadowing. People just . . . believe him.”

  “‘Not Compulsion?’ ” Hedion (Rhoses) asked.

  “You think I wouldn’t recognize the kissing cousin of the Bardic Gift?” Meran demanded indignantly. He sighed. “I only saw him up close once,” he admitted. “If he was using Influence, he did it faster and stronger than I’ve ever thought was possible.”

  “Apparently he used it on Elade directly,” Hedion said, answering the silent question.

  Elade scowled ferociously. “If that’s what it was, I’ll make sure he never does it again once I catch him. I chased him through the crowd. I caught him. He . . .” She hesitated, and her next words were spoken with obvious reluctance. “He told me I’d made a mistake—that he wasn’t the man I was after.”

  “And?” Hedion prompted.

  “And I let him go. I realized I’d grabbed the wrong man, and I let him go. I would have gone on thinking that, too, if Meran hadn’t opened his big mouth.”

  “Would you rather not know you’d been an idiot?” Meran demanded.

  “Children,” Hedion said (or it might have been Rhoses; who knew?)

  “So,” Meran said. “If it’s a Gift, I wondered if you knew what it was. And if it’s that strong, why hasn’t someone come for him? A Companion, I mean?”

  Rhoses seemed to be thinking the matter over before answering. “ ‘Companions only come for future Heralds,’ ” Hedion finally relayed.

  “But . . .” Elade said, puzzled.

  “I think he means our nameless friend doesn’t have the morals to be a Herald,” Hedion said.

  No one knew what qualities Companions looked for in their Chosen. The people they brought to the Collegium were as diverse as the people of Valdemar. But all of them had that something that meant they would someday don Herald’s Whites and dedicate their lives to service. I suppose that includes Gaurane, Meran added, with the usual puzzlement the thought brought. If there was an ideal Herald, then Gaurane was sort of . . .the anti-Herald.

  They’d reached their lodging.

  “I suppose I’d better—” Hedion began.

  Gaurane staggered through the doorway, squinting painfully at the daylight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, regarding Rhoses without any sign of welcome. “I suppose it was inevitable. Come along then, if you’re coming.” He turned and strode away.

  You had to walk quite a way before you left the outskirts of Summerfair behind, but at least Meran was used to walking. Beside him, Elade kept up an endless, nearly inaudible grumbling. But at last they’d put a good mile between themselves and the nearest fair straggler. Gaurane located a convenient rock, sat down with a grunt, and reached into his tunic for the ever-present flask.

  “Maybe someone can tell me why this is our problem,” he said, after he drank. “You—” he regarded Elade balefully “—hate being got round with Mind-magic, and you—” now Meran was his target “—never saw a wasp nest you didn’t want to poke. You have a death wish—” this was for Hedion “—and that is a compendium of all the virtues,” he finished, gesturing toward Rhoses. “And none of this has to do with Karse.”

  “How resistant are Heralds to Mind-magic?” Meran asked. “I’m not asking you,” he added
hurriedly. “I’m asking him.”

  All of them looked at Rhoses.

  “ ‘It . . .depends . . .’ ” Hedion finally quoted.

  Gaurane snorted. “Can’t fool one of the circus ponies, you know that damned well,” he said harshly.

  “But you can . . . fool . . . a Herald,” Hedion said, speaking for himself now. “If Healer’s Gift works on them, so do the others. Depending on the Herald. You don’t need a strong Gift to be Chosen. Or even one of the Mind Gifts at all.”

  Rhoses tossed his head. Hedion paused, listening. “ ‘When we are not with our Chosen, we only know what they know. Yes. It is possible.’ ”

  “What he means is, even if you dragged your man right up to one of those idiot meddlers in their pretty white suits, it’s even odds he’d convince them to let him go again sooner or later,” Gaurane said irritably. “And we still aren’t thief takers. So why is it our problem?”

  “Thieves are cautious,” Meran said slowly. A thought had been taking shape in his mind from the first time he’d run into their Gifted thief; even now he wasn’t entirely sure of the shape of it. “You’d say it would be more cautious not to steal at all, I know, but imagine you have no choice. Or just think you can get away with it. Even so, nobody wants to be caught. So a thief—a career thief, a professional—doesn’t take risks. But imagine there are no risks. Imagine you’ll never be caught—or if you’re caught, you’ll never be punished. Once you were sure of that . . . what might you do?”

  “You mean he’ll do worse,” Elade said flatly.

  “Maybe,” Meran said.

  “We can’t risk it,” Hedion said firmly. “But if you’ve guessed right, Meran, how do we catch him? Or keep our hands on him once we have?”

  He looked toward Gaurane, and Meran knew Rhoses must be speaking. But whatever he said, Hedion didn’t repeat it.

  Carjoris Lor was a happy man. Why shouldn’t he be, when the whole world was his treasure sack? From the moment he’d made up his mind to come west to find his fortune, Fortune had found him.