Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus)

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Kris exchanged a flickering, sober glance with his partner, but made no retort.

  At the hostel, which held a scant handful of travelers, they split up, each taking a likely prospect, and began trying to eke a little more information out of them.

  * * *

  Talia had chosen a shy priestess of one of the Moon-oriented orders, and hoped she could get something useful out of her without her Gift. She began her conversation with ordinary enough exchanges; the difficulties women faced when making long journeys, commiseration over the fact that men in authority seemed to take them lightly—Hostelmasters serving the men in the room first, no matter what the order of their arrival was, and much more in the same vein. Carefully, over the entire evening, she began steering the talk to the topics that seemed to be the most sensitive.

  “Your King—I must say, he certainly seems to be a good ruler,” Talia said casually, when the topic of Alessandar came up. “From what I can see, everyone seems to be prospering. That ought to be making for good days with your temple.”

  “Oh, yes… Alessandar is a fine ruler to us; things have never been better…” The priestess trailed off into hesitant uncertainty.

  “And he has a fine, strong son to follow him? Or so I’m told.”

  “Yes, yes, Ancar is strong enough… has there been much flooding in Valdemar? We’ve never seen the like of it this spring.”

  Had there been uneasiness when the woman spoke Ancar’s name?

  “Flooding, for fair. Crops and herds wiped out, rivers changing course even. Young Elspeth has been at the Queen to let her be about the countryside doing what she can—but of course that’s out of the question while she’s still in schooling. Once she’s older, though, I’ve no doubt she’ll be the Queen’s own right hand. Surely Ancar has been seeing to things for his father?”

  “No… no, not really. The… the factors take care of all that, you know. And… we really don’t want to be seeing Ancar… it isn’t fitting for someone in his station to be going among the common folk. He has his own Court—has since he came of age, you know. He has—other interests.”

  “Ah,” Talia replied, and allowed the conversation to turn to another topic.

  * * *

  “Not very conclusive,” Kris mused. “But it’s looking odd.”

  Talia nodded; they’d waited again until they were on the road before talking.

  “I’ve gotten a similar sort of impression,” he began.

  “As if things were reasonably well now, but that folk are not entirely sure of what the morrow might bring.”

  “Damn that goatsfoot! If we could just have some idea how deeply this goes—if it’s more than just the usual worries about ‘better the straw king than the lion king’—gods, we need your Gift!”

  “It’s still not reliable,” she told him regretfully.

  “Well, we just have to muddle along on our own.” He sighed. “This is exactly the kind of reason we’ve been sent on ahead, and we have to have clearer information than we’ve got. Selenay can’t act on anything this vague.”

  “I know,” she said, biting her lip. “I know.”

  * * *

  That night Talia tackled an elderly clerk. When she brought up the topic of the King, he was voluble in his praise of Alessandar.

  “Look at these hostels—wonderful idea, wonderful! I remember when I was just a lad, my first post as tax-collector—Lord Sun, the inns I had to stay in, verminous, filthy, and costing so high you wondered why they didn’t just put a knife to your throat and have done with it! And he’s cleaned out most of the brigands and robbers, him and his Army; Karse daren’t even think about invading anymore. Oh, aye, he’s a great King—but he’s old…”

  “Surely Ancar—”

  “Well, that’s as may be. The Prince is a one for protocol and position; he doesn’t seem to be as open-handed as his sire. And there’s the rumors…”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, you know, young m’lady—there’s always rumors.”

  * * *

  Indeed there were rumors; and now Kris actually suspected listeners, so he signaled Talia to wait to talk until they were on an open stretch of road the next day, with no one else near.

  She told him what she’d gotten, and what she’d guessed.

  “So Ancar has his own little Court, hm?” Kris mused. “And his own circle of followers and hangers-on. I can’t say as I like the sound of that. Even if the Prince is innocent and fair-minded, there’s likely to be those that would use him in a situation like that.”

  “He doesn’t sound innocent or fair-minded from the little I’ve prised out of anyone,” Talia replied. “Granted in fairness—he may just be a naturally cold and hard man. Goddess knows he’s seen enough warfare at his age to have turned him hard.”

  “Oh? This is news to me—say on.”

  “At fourteen he participated in a series of campaigns that wiped out every trace of the Northern barbarians along their North Border. That set of campaigns lasted almost two years. At seventeen he led the Army against the last raid Karse ever dared make on them—and again, the raiders were utterly wiped out. At twenty he personally mounted a campaign against highwaymen, with the result that nearly every tree from here to the capital was bearing gallows’ fruit that summer.”

  “Sounds like he should be regarded as a hero.”

  “Instead of with fear? It was apparently the way he conducted himself that has people afraid. He makes no effort to hide the fact that he enjoys killing—and he’s utterly, utterly ruthless. He hanged more than a few of those ‘highwaymen’ on merest suspicion of wrongdoing, and lingered with a winecup in his hand to watch while they died.”

  “Lovely lad. Sounds like just the mate for our Elspeth.”

  “Don’t even say that as a joke!” Talia all but hissed. “Or haven’t you been granted any of the tales of his conduct with women? I was told it isn’t a good idea to attract his attention, and to stay out of his sight as much as possible.”

  “Probably more than you; if you believe what you hear, young Ancar’s taste runs to rape, and the younger, the better, so long as they’re nubile and attractive. But that’s the tale only if you read between the lines. Nobody’s told me anything about that straight out.”

  :They haven’t said anything straight out about the wizards he keeps either,: Tantris put in unexpectedly.

  “What?” Kris replied in surprise.

  :I’ve been keeping my ears open in the stable. The hostelkeepers have been frightening the stablehands into line with threats about turning them over to Ancar’s wizards if they don’t move briskly and keep to their work.:

  “So? That’s an old wives’ trick.”

  :Not when it’s being used on “stableboys” old enough to have families of their own. And not when the threat genuinely terrified them.:

  “Lord of Light, this is beginning to look grim—” Kris relayed Tantris’ words to Talia.

  “We’ve got to find someone willing to speak out,” she replied. “We daren’t turn back with nothing in our hands but rumors. Selenay needs facts—and if we turned back now, we might well precipitate a diplomatic incident.”

  “I agree,” Kris replied, even more firmly. “And if we’re being watched, well—we just might not reach the Border again.”

  “You think it’s possible? You think he’d dare?”

  “I think he would, if what the rumors hint at is true, and enough was at stake. And the only way we’re going to get any idea of what Ancar is like and what his plans are, is to get in close to him. And I’m afraid we need that information; I’m afraid more than Elspeth’s betrothal hinges on us now.”

  “That,” she replied, “is what I feared you’d say.”

  * * *

  A day from the capital they finally found someone who would discuss the “rumors.” It was pure luck, plainly and simply.

  As they rode into town, Talia spotted a trader’s caravan that she thought she recognized. Traders’ wagons were al
l built to the same pattern, but their gaudy painting was highly individual. The designs rarely included lettering, since most of a trader’s customers were far from literate, but they were meant to be memorable for the selfsame reason. And Talia thought she remembered the design of cheerful blue cats chasing each other around the lower border.

  A few moments later, she saw the shaggy black head of the bearded owner, and couldn’t believe her good fortune. This trader, one Evan by name, was a man who owed Talia his life. He had been accused of murder; she had defended him from an angry mob and found out the real culprit. Having cast Truth Spell on him and touched his mind, she knew she could trust not only his words, but that he would not betray them to anyone.

  His wagon was parked in a row of others, in the stableyard of the “Crown and Candle,” an inn that catered to trade.

  When they reached the hostel, and settled down to dinner, Talia tapped Kris’ toe with her own. They didn’t like to use this method of communicating; it was awkward and very easy to detect unless their feet were hidden. But the hostel was nearly empty, and they’d been given a table to themselves in the back; she reckoned it was safe enough this time.

  Follow my lead, she signaled.

  He nodded, eyes half closed, as if in response to a thought of his own. “I saw an old friend today,” she said—and tapped Trader—Truth Spell—knowing that he would readily remember the only circumstance that combined those two subjects.

  “Really? Wonder if we could get him to stand us a drink?”

  And—Information source?—he tapped back.

  “Oh, I think so,” she replied cheerfully. Yes.

  “Good! I could stand a drop of good wine. This stuff is not my idea of a drink.” Reliable?

  “Then I’ll see if we can’t talk him into a round or two.” Yes—Debt of honor.

  “Hm.” He pushed his stew around with a bit of bread. Gods—your

  Gift?

  Back.

  Do it.

  She summoned one of the little boys that hung around the hostel hoping for just such an opportunity to earn a coin, and sent a carefully worded message to Evan. He replied by the same messenger, asking her to meet him, not at his inn, but at his wagon.

  He did not seem surprised to see Kris with her. He opened the back of the wagon and invited both of them inside the tiny living area. The three of them squeezed into seats around a tiny scrap of a table, and Evan poured three cups of wine, then waited expectantly.

  Talia let down her shields with caution, and searched about the wagon for any human presence near enough to hear anything. There was nothing, and no one.

  “Evan—” she said quietly, then, “traders hear a lot. To come straight to the point, I need to know what you’ve heard about Prince Ancar. You know you can trust me—and I promise we aren’t being spied on. I’d know if we were.”

  Evan hesitated, but only a moment. “I… expected something of this sort. If I did not owe you so very much, Lady Herald—but there it is. And you have the right of it, a trader hears much. Aye, there’s rumors, black rumors, about young Ancar. Five, six years agone, when he first came of age and warranted his own court, he began collecting some unchancy sorts about him. Scholars, he calls ’em. And, aye, some good has come of it—like the signal towers, some aqueducts and the like. But in the last year his scholars have gotten more of a reputation for wizardry and witchcraft than they have for knowledge.”

  “Well, now, isn’t that what they say of Heralds here, too?” Kris smiled uneasily.

  “But I never heard anyone say your witchcraft was anything but of the Light, young man,” Evan replied, “And I’ve never heard anything but darksome tales of late where Ancar’s friends are concerned. I’ve heard tales that they raise power with the spilling of blood—”

  “How likely?” Kris asked.

  Evan shrugged. “Can’t say. To be fair, I’ve been places where the same is said of the followers of the One, and you of Valdemar know how wrong that is. This I can tell for true—he has in the past year turned to wenching. Wenching of the nastier sort. He has his way with any poor young maid that catches his eye, highborn or low, and none dare gainsay him—and his tastes run to leaving them with scars. Well, and that isn’t all. He has men of his own about the countryside these days—‘intelligencers’ they call themselves. They claim to be like you twain, being the King’s eyes and ears, to see that all’s well—but I misdoubt that they’re speaking their information in any ears but Ancar’s, and I doubt the King knows they exist.”

  “I don’t like that,” Talia whispered.

  “I don’t either. I’ve been questioned by ’em fair often since I crossed the Border, and I mislike some of the questions they’re asking. Who bought like they’d gotten prosperous, who’d told me aught, who bends knee to what god—aye, you can believe old Evan the Shrewd became Evan the Stupid ’round ’em.”

  His expression changed to one of thick-headed opacity. “Aye, milord, no, milord, talk t’ me milord?” He wiped the look from his face. “Even let ’em cheat me right royally t’ convince ’em. That’s not the end of it. I’ve heard from those I trust that Ancar has raised his own private Army; at least three thousand men, and all of them the scum of the prisons, given their lives on condition they serve him. Well, I’ll likely be gone before I find what this was all about, but I pity anybody who’s here when Ancar takes the throne. Oh, yes,” he shook his head, “I pity them.”

  * * *

  They rode away from their hostel the next morning with grim faces, and paused in a little copse of trees just outside of town, where they could see anyone approaching, but no one could see them.

  “I don’t like it,” Talia said flatly. “My vote is to turn around and head back for the Border—but there’s the fact that a move like that could be construed as an insult.”

  She wanted badly to run; she was more afraid now than she’d ever been except when she’d lost control over her Gift. She was feeling very like she was walking into something she couldn’t handle now, too—but this was exactly why Selenay had sent them in the first place—to uncover anything that might threaten Valdemar. And there was just the faintest of premonitions that some of this might lead back to Orthallen.

  “All the more reason to stick it out,” Kris replied soberly. “We’ve heard the rumors; we need to learn exactly how much danger there is, or we can’t properly advise the Queen of the situation. We don’t learn the depth of the problem by turning tail and running. And like I said before—if we turn now, they might decide we’ve learned something, and stop us before we made it back across the Border. If we stick, we should be able to bluff our way out.”

  “Kris, it’s dangerous; we’re playing with fire, here.”

  “I know it’s dangerous, but no more dangerous than any number of other missions Dirk and I pulled off. And we have to find what his long-term plans are, if there’s any chance at all to do so.”

  “I know, I know.” Talia shivered. “But Kris, I don’t like it. I feel like I’m walking into a darkened room, knowing that as soon as I light a candle I’ll discover I’ve walked into a den of serpents and the door’s been locked behind me.”

  “You’re the ranking Herald, little bird. Do we go on and find out exactly what the situation is and whether or not there’s immediate threat to the Kingdom, or do we head back to Selenay with what we know now—running like our tails are on fire and hope they can’t stop us?”

  “How could we get back if they come after us?”

  Kris sighed. “I wouldn’t give very good odds. What we’d have to do is cut across country, avoiding roads—unfamiliar country, I might add, and we’d have to go night and day. Or we send Rolan and Tantris back alone, with messages, get rid of our rather conspicuous uniforms, steal disguises, try to get back afoot. With accents that damn us and every ‘intelligencer’ in the country knowing our exact descriptions. Frankly, the odds are with playing stupid and bluffing our way out.”

  “Could I pretend to be
sick again?”

  “Then they’d expect us to go straight to the capital and the King’s Healers, not head back to our Border.”

  Talia shut her eyes and weighed all the possible consequences; then bit her lip, and steeled herself for the decision she knew she had to make.

  “We go on,” she said, unhappily. “We haven’t got a choice.”

  * * *

  But when they met their escort just outside the capital at the end of a six-day journey from the Valdemar Border, Talia almost heard the click of the lock behind her.

  They announced their arrival at the gates of the city, and were asked, courteously enough, to wait. After about an hour, spent watching the usual sort of foot-and-beast traffic pass in and out of the city, there was a blast of trumpets and the common folk vanished from the vicinity as if whisked away by a spell.

  Talia had expected an official escort; she had not expected that they would be met by what amounted to a royal procession. For that was exactly what emerged from the city gates.

  Prancing out of the gateway came a procession of dozens of brightly-bedecked nobles and their liveried attendants, all mounted on high-bred palfreys.

  Prince Ancar and his entourage rode at the head of it. Talia had definitely not expected him—and from the very brief flash of surprise on his face, neither had Kris.

  Ancar rode toward them through a double row formed by his mounted courtiers and his guards; it was all very staged, and meant to impress. It impressed Talia, but hardly in the way she assumed he intended. On seeing him for the first time, Talia felt like a cat that has suddenly been confronted by a viper. She wanted to arch her back, hiss, and strike out at him.

  “Greetings, from myself, and my honored Father,” he said coolly, bowing slightly but not dismounting. “We have come to escort the envoys of Queen Selenay to the palace.”

  Talia was mortally certain that the “we” he used was the royal plurality, and noted that his horse was at least two hands higher than either Companion, allowing his head to be that much higher than theirs.