“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.”
He gave a broad wink to show that he was teasing, and before Hektor could protest that he would return at a more convenient time, the old man had maneuvered him farther into the room with a well-placed elbow that belied his age and had bustled away into the kitchen, all the while chattering happily amidst the trilling and chirping of his many little finches and yellow-birds.
Moments later, Hektor found himself sitting opposite Daedrus’ other guests with a far too delicate china tea cup clutched in one hand and a jam tart in the other. When pressed by the old man, he sketched out the reason for his visit in as few words as possible, recited The Poet’s latest creation, then fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Sipping at his own cup, Daedrus leaned forward, his rheumy blue eyes twinkling. “I must confess that I have been following The Poet’s exploits with a great deal of interest. The first verses were scribbled on a stone bridge span, were they not?” he asked. When Hektor answered in the affirmative, he nodded happily. “And then on a granary wall. Something to do with braided locks of hair and unrequited passion, as I remember. It reminded me of the works of the great Bard Valens. Don’t you think so, Hiron?”
The Bard gave an eloquent shrug. “His earliest works perhaps,” he allowed in a polite, well-modulated tone. “His poetry settled down and became somewhat less melodramatic once he’d entered into his twenties.”
“Yes, well, not so much unrequited passion to report of, I would imagine,” Daedrus said with a chuckle. “By all accounts he was a powerfully attractive man in his youth.”
“He was said to have been the most beautiful man in all of Valdemar,” Adele agreed. “And that his voice could charm the very trees to bursting into leaf in winter when he sang of spring.”
“Indeed it could. I had the pleasure of hearing him sing towards the end of his days,” Daedrus said with a faraway smile. “And it was exactly as you say. I was very young at the time and most of my attention was given over to the science of construction, but I do remember feeling as if the whole of the world should be in love at that very moment.” He sighed happily. “A singular experience and one that I shall never forget.”
“Yes, but he was the most famous for his love poetry,” Hiron explained. “His gift of
Projective Empathy was so strong that you could feel it through the words themselves. There was a time when no Bard in Haven would dare venture out without at least a dozen examples of his work well memorized. Even the patrons of the most lowly drinking establishments in the farthest reaches of Valdemar were demanding his poems. They were collected in several volumes in his lifetime and again just after his death. I’m afraid that would be the only way to become acquainted with his work today,” he said with real regret. “Poetry’s fallen rather out of fashion in these last few years.”
“Although thanks to this new poet, it seems to be making a resurgence,” Adele noted. “You can hear snatches of poetry from one end of the Collegium to the other.”
“I think I must have book of his about somewhere,” Daedrus said thoughtfully. “Yes, I’m sure I do.”
“So you think The Poet to be well educated, then, sir?” Hektor asked before Daedrus could begin searching his very extensive library.
“I do,” Hiron replied. “His work is both derivative and antiquated. It’s unlikely that he would write in such a manner without having become both familiar and enamored of Valens’ style.”
Hektor glanced at him briefly, then plunged ahead before he could reconsider his question. “Could a Bard do it, sir?” he asked.
Hiron raised one fine eyebrow at him. “A Bard could do it, Sergeant,” he allowed, “but a Bard would not do it. Not in such a manner as this.”
Daedrus smiled. “The Bardic Collegium frowns on graffiti as a medium for creative expression,” he said with a chuckle. “Besides, Haven’s Bards have plenty of other stages on which to express their art. No, my dear boy, I believe your poet is someone for whom a proper stage is unavailable.”
Hektor nodded. “We had thought maybe an artist, sir. The letters are all well formed, almost stylized, and the paint’s of good quality and well mixed such as a practiced artist might create.”
Daedrus drummed his fingers against his lips in thought. “It could be an artist,” he allowed. “But I don’t know of any artist of my acquaintance that fancies himself a poet or for that matter a muralist-poet. Adele? Hiron?”
When the others answered in the negative, he nodded to himself thoughtfully. “Were there any other objects painted besides the words, Sergeant? Any flowers or birds or such like?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, I shouldn’t think it was an artist. They’re too enamored of depicting physical objects. No, no, you may rely on it, you’re definitely looking for a poet, to be sure, but one with access to an artist’s materials, I shouldn’t wonder. There are a number of studios and private drawing schools north of Breakneedle Street.” His rheumy blue eyes suddenly lit up. “Would you like me to make a few inquiries for you?”
Hektor breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. He’d been wondering how he was going to trespass on the territory of the Breakneedle Watch House without incurring their wrath. “That would be a great help, thank you sir.”
“Don’t mention it, dear boy, it’s my pleasure.”
Using this as an excuse to take his leave, Hektor set his cup down very carefully, but as he rose to go, Hiron caught his eye.
“Another thing to consider,” he said. “I believe you’ll discover that your poet is young. Very young.”
“Sir?”
“To live for love’s first kiss? Think about it, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Later that evening, as eleven people sat down to eat in the crowded Dann family kitchen, Hektor laid out the interview for Aiden as he accepted a bowl of fish stew from their mother.
“Valens, huh?” his older brother said around a steaming spoonful of his own. “Never heard of him.”
“I ain’t surprised,” their grandfather snorted as he helped himself to a large piece of bread and butter from the towering plateful in the center of the table. “He died afore you were born. Believe it or not, I used to read bits of his poetry to yer gran when I was courting her. Powerful words they were. To this day I credit ’em with her saying yes to me.”
“Nonsense, Thomar,” their mother said with a laugh, “Leila told me that you were the most handsome man ever to wear a watchman’s uniform. That is, until my five boys came along,” she added, smiling around the table. Both Hektor and Aiden looked embarrassed, but their twin brothers Raik and Jakon beamed back at her.
“So what have we got so far?” Jakon, the slightly taller of the two, said, leaning back in his chair. Aiden’s eight-month old daughter, Leila, was balanced on one knee. “Someone well-educated who can get hold of books an’ paint an’ who fancies himself a poet, but isn’t old enough to write in his own voice yet.”
Eleven-year-old Padreic bridled at his words and Jakon waved a dismissive hand at him.
“Fine, hasn’t got enough experience yet,” he allowed. “Happy?”
Their only sister, thirteen-year-old Kasiath, glanced up from the small messenger bird she was tending in her lap. “No,” she replied somberly. “I don’t see what experience has got to do with it. You can know your own feelings enough to express them at any age. I do.”
Hektor rolled his eyes at her. “Don’t tell me that our serious, hard-working Kassie has fallen under The Poet’s romantic spell too?” he teased. “Half the citizens of Haven are wandering about with moonstruck expression on their faces.”
“And they keep knocking into each other,” Aiden added. “I’ve never sorted out so many fistfights.”
“It’s calmed the night beats down, though,” Raik observed. “The taverns are a lot quieter an’ some of ’em are even having poetry singing.”
“You’re kidding,” Aiden snorted.
“Nope. That young Bard, what’s-her-name, Lexi, had ’em spellbound at The Broken Arms last night. They all sat there as still as mice until she finished.”
“Maybe The Poet’s not doin’ such a bad thing, then,” Padreic said quietly.
The entire family turned surprised eyes on him.
“Maybe not,” Hektor allowed. “But it’s still vandalism and it needs to stop before it spawns a whole crowd of lovestruck copiers across the city. The Poet can put pen to paper like anyone else. You don’t know who he is, do you, Paddy?”
“Course not. I’m a watchman first, Hek.” Padreic glared at his older brother. “It’s just . . . well . . . ”
“Rosie from downstairs likes The Poet’s works, doesn’t she, Paddy?” Aiden’s wife, Sulia, said, not unkindly. “Not like that, my little man! Where are your manners?” She caught three-year-old Egan’s fingers in hers just as he was about to snatch his great-grandfather’s bread right off his plate. “I thought you were watching him, Aiden,” she admonished.
Aiden accepted his unrepentant son into his arms with a look of mock contrition.
“Rosie’s worried about what’ll happen when The Poet’s caught,” Sulia continued, handing Aiden a smaller piece of bread to feed to Egan.
“Yeah, maybe.” Padreic shrugged.
“Well, tell her not to fret,” Hektor told him. “It’s not like he’s killed anyone. He’ll probably just be made to clean the verses off.”
“I’m surprised no one’s come forward to lay claim to ’em, frankly,” Aiden noted. “With the effect they’re having on everybody. Here, here, the bread, boy, not the fingers. Honestly.”
“I’m surprised no one’s answered them,” Hektor replied. “Half the city thinks The Poet’s speaking to them.”
“So, someone young,” their mother prompted, setting the teapot and a tray of mugs onto the table. “But someone already in love.”
The gathered Danns now glanced up at her curiously.
“The Poet’s speaking to someone, that’s plain enough, but someone in particular,” she explained. “Hoping she’ll pass by. And what was that verse about entwining? The one you found on that vintner’s wall two days ago?”
Hektor leaned back, his eyes closed to better remember the verses.
Wouldst that our hearts might thus
entwine,
So mine’s be yours and yours be mine.
And never part except at Death
that vexing hand that . . .
He stopped and the rest of the people around the table stirred expectantly.
“That what?” their grandfather demanded.
Hektor opened his eyes. “That’s all there was. Looked like he got interrupted in mid-verse.” He poured himself a mug of tea with a thoughtful expression. “Someone must have come on him,” he finished.
“The Watch?” Their mother asked.
Hektor shook his head. “It were . . . ”
“Was.”
He sighed. “It was Toby’s route and he didn’t report seeing anything amiss that night.”
“Amiss?” their grandfather asked, winking at Padreic. “He musta missed it.”
Raik and Jakon began to snicker. “He did miss it,” Jakon said.
“A clear night with a moon, an’ bright green letters a full three foot high an’ ten feet up, an’ he never saw a thing,” Raik added. “He took some grief for that come morning.”
“Well, something musta interrupted The Poet at work, if it wasn’t the Watch,” Thomar said irritably.
“Maybe he couldn’t find anything that rhymed with death,” Jakon ventured.
“Not death, Death.” Raik gave a dramatic emphasis on the last word.
“Maybe he couldn’t find anything that rhymed with Death.”
“That’s because nothing does rhyme with death,” Hektor pointed out.
Finding the Way and Other Tales of Valdemar Page 24
