“Usually,” Jors muttered, dismounting.
Besides the dried blood left on his knee by Torbin’s father, he had yellow-brown smears on one thigh, various fluids drying on his shoulder, vomited-up apple on one boot, and his lap was distinctly damp and unpleasant smelling.
He felt weirdly smug when Torbin, still shrieking and now clearly furious, tried to launch himself out of the woman’s arms and back to his. He felt understandably relieved when the woman competently prevented the launch and said, “I’ll just get him straightened out and quiet, and you can explain what’s happening when you’re all clean and fed.”
There was, apparently, a trick to making oneself heard over a screaming child.
“I assume,” she continued, “that there’s no emergency requiring more immediate attention?”
When Jors assured her that there was not—mostly with a combination of sign language and facial expressions—she left him to the care of her brothers, who just as competently showed him where he could tend to Gervais, wash, and change into his other, distinctly cleaner uniform. He had to borrow a shirt.
The deep woods settlements didn’t have Waystations, as sleeping outside the palisades ranged from being a bad to a suicidal idea depending on how long the settlement had been in place. Since most were single-family dwellings spread over a number of buildings, it was difficult for anyone to claim favor if Heralds bunked down with their Companions either in the communal barn if the weather was bad or outside it if not. Some of the older settlements had built a Herald’s Corner that offered a little privacy, but this one, young enough that some of the logs in the palisade were still leaking sap, was still concentrating on getting a secure roof over everyone’s head before the cold weather came.
With Gervais unsaddled, brushed down, and settled with water, food, and three little girls who stared at him in adoration, Jors headed off to the male side of the communal showers, dumped a hide bag of sunwarmed water over his head, scrubbed himself down with a bar of soap and a soft brush, and felt a lot better. His ears had almost stopped ringing.
“Ah, Dylan, he got broke a bit when he lost Tiria.” Allin, the older of the brothers, leaned back against the wall and scratched at the edge of his beard. “Was a fine fellow before, ’s why we agreed to let him set up on the edge of our grant. Got to say, I’m not surprised he ended like you found him though, Herald, all alone out there like he was, heartbroken, no one to watch his back.”
“Loved his boy, though,” Helena added, glancing over to the pallet where Torbin lay asleep with a child close to his own age and a large orange cat. “I expect he’d have come back to people when the boy got a bit older. It’s one thing to mourn while rocking a baby, it’s another thing entirely when that baby’s running you ragged.”
“Then he should’ve been heading for people a couple of months ago,” Jors sighed.
“I’m sure you did your best, Herald.” Helena smiled as she refilled his mug. “But what do you know about babies, a young man like you. And your Companion’s a stallion too, isn’t he? Never mind, my grandson’s near enough to Torbin’s age as to make no difference, and we’d be happy to take him in.”
All his instincts said these were good people, and Jors knew Torbin would be happy here. He could get on with doing what he’d been trained to do.
Except . . .
“I promised his father that I’d take Torbin to his aunt in Rabbit Hole.”
“Dylan wanted him sent to Mirril, did he? Makes sense, she was as near broke up when Tiria passed as he was. Girls grew up together.”
It occurred to Jors as he finished his bowl of stew that it was good thing these foresters knew Torbin’s aunt. Had they not, he could have spent days trying to find her, wandering around Rabbit Hole looking for a woman related to a dead charcoal burner with very blue eyes. Well, maybe not days, Rabbit Hole wasn’t that big, but it was still going to be a lot easier going in with a name. And facing another two days on the trail with Torbin, Jors was looking for all the easier he could get.
“There’s a spring where you’ll be stopping, so chill any milk you have left in it overnight, and it should be good until he drinks it all. There’s six hard boiled eggs in the pack; as long as the shells don’t crack, they’ll be fine for two days, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to chill them in the spring as well. Let’s see, what else . . .” Helena frowned, bouncing Torbin on one hip. “Oh, yes. I’ve put six cloths in the pack, but let him spend as much time without anything on his bottom as possible. It’s just baby poop,” she snickered, as Jors failed to prevent a reaction. “After he goes, take the cloth off him and pay attention. If he starts to pee, dismount.”
“Or point him out over the trail,” Allin added.
That got a laugh from most of the gathered adults and a delighted shriek from Torbin, although he couldn’t have understood he was the subject of the discussion.
After checking the girth one last time—any further checking of his tack would start to look like a deliberate delay—Jors swung up into the saddle. “I’ll return when I’ve placed him safely with his aunt.”
“There’s no hurry, Herald. Do what you have to.”
:Ready?:
Gervais shook his head. He’d had his mane braided the night before, and the early morning sunlight painted ripples into some of the strands. :As ready as I am capable of being.:
“Ossy!”
“All right.” Deep breath. “Hand him up.
Jors spread the sixth cloths out over the bushes and hoped at least one of them would be dry by morning. He’d done his best, but there was a limit to how much he could get out with spring water and a stick.
“Point him over the trail,” he muttered heading back to the camp—he’d moved downhill to do Torbin’s laundry in the hope of avoiding contamination. It might be, as Helena had said, just baby poop, but as far as he was concerned, there was no just about it. :How is it possible for him to expel more than he’s taken in?:
:Are you counting vomiting?:
During one of their stops, Torbin had eaten a handful of leaves he’d ripped from a bush by the trail. And some dirt. And a bug. A little further down the trail, he’d brought them all back up again. Jors had been happy—by certain specific definitions of the word happy—that he’d changed back into his stained uniform. Gervais had insisted they stop immediately and clean his mane.
:Chosen!:
He’d have never heard an actual verbal call over the shrieking.
Arriving at the campsite at a dead run, Jors found Torbin straining against Gervais’ hold on the back of his smock, the Companion’s teeth gripping a fold of the fabric as the child fought to get to the spring.
:He ate another bug.:
“Ossy!”
Jors scratched at a welt across his bare chest and sighed. :At least he’s not a fussy eater.:
Wrapped up in the fluffier of the two blankets Jors had taken from the charcoal burner’s hut, thumb tucked deep in his mouth, eyelashes a dark smudge against the upper curve of chubby cheeks, Torbin looked as though he would never consider trying to throw himself off a Companion’s back causing that Companion’s Herald to temporarily stop breathing. As though he’d never try to poke his own eye out with a stick. As though he’d never drop a half-dead cricket into someone else’s supper.
Jors settled another log on the fire and leaned back against Gervais’ shoulder to watch Torbin sleep. :Why are we doing this again?: he sighed.
:You gave your word to his father.:
:I know but... : He dug another bit of mashed egg out of his ear. :This isn’t exactly what Heralds do, is it?:
:Yes.:
:Yes?: Jors repeated, wondering if he’d heard correctly. Given the egg, he might not have.
:Yes, it is exactly what Heralds do.:
:How do you figure?: he asked, stroking one hand along the Companion’s silky side.
:The Heralds not only protect Valdemar as it is but, by their actions, Valdemar as it will be. This child is the f
uture of Valdemar. It doesn’t matter if he is Chosen or he becomes a charcoal burner like his father; here and now, he is not only himself, he is the potential for everything he could be. Without him there will be no future in Valdemar, so yes, you are doing exactly what it is Heralds do. There is nothing more important you could be doing.:
:That helps.:
:I thought it might.:
:You have to admit ,though, he certainly puts something like a diplomatic mission to Karse into perspective.:
:It is unlikely that you and I would be sent to Karse.:
:Not diplomatic enough?:
:Not even close. Still, a mission to Karse would likely involve less vomiting.:
:There is that.:
Rabbit Hole was not exactly a bustling metropolis, and the second person Jors asked was able to direct him to Mirril. The charcoal burner’s younger sister had married the son of a wheelwright, and they lived in the family complex surrounding the work yard. She had her brother’s bright blue eyes.
Torbin tried to stick a finger into one of them, but he didn’t shriek when she cuddled him, her tears falling to gleam against his curls, so maybe, Jors thought, maybe he knew this was home.
“At least Dylan didn’t die alone, there’s that. He had a Herald with him.” Mirril blinked away tears and managed a watery smile. “He used to tell me stories about Heralds when we were growing up.” She frowned suddenly at the long white hairs Torbin was clutching in one hand. “Oh, no . . .”
:Tell her he may keep them, Chosen.:
When Jors passed on Gervais’ remark, she blushed and tucked the hair into her apron pocket. “I could braid them into a bracelet for him. He wouldn’t eat them then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Jors told her. “He likes to eat. He likes travel biscuits and egg and goat’s milk. Oh, and Helena at the settlement said that the next time they bring a load of lumber out, she’ll pay you for Torbin’s goat. She followed us to the settlement.” Torbin reached out a hand, and Jors pretended to grab it and eat the fingers, making him shriek with laughter. “He likes to run, and he seems to have no idea of self preservation, but he’s a tough little guy and a big believer in picking himself up and getting on with things when he falls. He doesn’t talk a lot. I don’t know if that’s usual for his age, but he says no and ride horsey.” And Papa, but Jors didn’t add that out loud. “He’s pretty good at making his wants known.”
“Ossy!”
She was smiling now and shaking her head.
“We need to get back on the trail so . . . uh . . .” It was harder to say goodbye than he’d expected. He planted a kiss on the dimpled knuckles and released Torbin’s hand. “Be a good boy for your auntie.”
“Ossy!”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Jors thought of Torbin’s father. “I wish I could have done more.” He turned, then turned again. “Do you think, I mean, would you mind if I stopped by to visit him if I’m in the area? I wouldn’t be checking up or anything; I just . . .”
. . . had stains all over his uniform, and the smell might never leave his saddle bags, and it was entirely possible he still had egg in his ear.
“Would I mind if a Herald came by to visit my brother’s son? Why would I ever mind that? Why would anyone. But why would you?” Mirril’s cheeks were flushed, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “I mean, you have so much more important things to do.”
“Ossy!”
With an ease that came from three days of intensive training, Jors caught the future of Valdemar as he threw himself out of his auntie’s arms shrieking, “Ossy!”
“Actually,” he said, letting Torbin slide to the ground and wrap himself around one of the Companion’s legs, “I don’t. Not really.”
:He’s still sticky,: Gervais sighed.
The Thief of Anvil’s Close
By Fiona Patton
Fiona Patton was born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and grew up in the United States. In 1975 she returned to Canada and now lives in rural Ontario with her partner and nine cats. She has six books out from DAW, including her latest,
The Golden Tower
, the second in the Warriors of Estavia series and is currently working on the third and final book, tentatively entitled
The Shining City
. She has over thirty short stories with Tekno Books and DAW. “The Thief of Anvil’s Close” is the second Valdemar story featuring Haven’s Dann family.
It was a beautiful, autumn afternoon in Haven, the kind you remembered long afterward: warm and brightly sunny, with just enough breeze to sweeten the air with the heady aromas of baking bread and . . .
Standing on the crowded threshold of the Iron Street Watch House, Sergeant Hektor Dann took a deep breath, his eye tightly closed . . .
And . . . meat pies.
He smiled. Every year, from the very first day his mother had allowed him to bring his father and grandfather their dinners at age six to the day he was named, first watchhouse sweeper, then runner, then finally constable, the autumn breeze had carried the same scents on the breeze. He could almost feel the cloth-wrapped pot of warm stew against his chest, the worn, wooden broom handle in his hands, the cold cobblestones against his bare feet, the scratch of the brand new uniform tunic against his wrists.
“Hek! Hektor! I mean, Sergeant!”
Almost, but not quite. He opened his eyes.
His youngest brother, eleven-year-old Padreic, newly made watchhouse runner, rocked to a halt in front of him, breathing like a forge bellows. His face was red with exertion, but his eyes shone with importance and just a hint of mischief that Hektor instantly mistrusted.
“Runner.”
“You’re wanted on . . . Anvil’s Close,” his brother panted, ignoring his older brother’s attempt at a stern expression. “At Edzel’s shop,” he added in a meaningful voice.
“Who’s wantin’ me, Edzel or one of his neighbors?”
“Edzel.”
“Well that’s somethin’ anyway. Leastways, there won’t be a public nuisance complaint or an assault charge.” Last month, Master Blacksmith Edzel Smith had thrown an andiron at a farrier who’d though his concerns were “funny.” Edzel was a lot of things, but he was never funny.
“There might still be,” Padreic disagreed, his breath back and the look of importance growing on his face as he savored the information he possessed that his older brother didn’t. “He’s throwin’ a right barny this time,” he embellished. “Rantin’ and ravin’ like a fit’s on him. Says someone’s been thievin’ his goods.”
“Edzel always thinks someone’s been thievin’ his goods.”
Hektor turned to see their oldest brother, Corporal Aiden Dann, standing behind him, an unimpressed expression on his face.
“This time he’s worse, Aiden,” Padreic assured him. “ ’Cause this time he might be right.”
“Hm.” Aiden glanced at Hektor. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, giving the brand new stripes on Hektor’s sleeve a sharp prod. “You goin’, or you gonna stand there actin’ like you’re still afraid of a crazy old blacksmith?”
“I’m goin’ . . .”
“Only?”
“Only . . .” Hektor gave his older brother a helpless look, and Aiden shook his head in disgust.
“Fine, I’ll go with you.”
“Thanks, Aiden.”
“Thanks, Corporal,” his brother prompted.
“Yeah, thanks Corporal.”
Anvil’s Close lay just off the Iron Market entrance gates. A narrow, neatly cobblestoned street, it was made up of small forges and iron shops where the city’s blacksmiths and their families sold everything from wrought iron railings and window grills to surgical tools and musical instruments: anything that could be fashioned out of metal. An older woman, dressed in a stout leather apron, leaned out the door of the first shop as they passed by.
“Well, well, Sergeant Dann,” she said with a wicked smile. “Haven’t you just gotten all grown
up an’ promoted. Ismy wouldn’t know you to look at you now.”
Hektor kept his expression as neutral as possible although he could feel his neck turning red above the collar of his blue and gray watchman’s uniform. “Hello, Judee,” he replied.
“Crazy old fool’ll bring on a fit if he’s not careful,” she noted, jerking her head down the Close. “Best get yourself over there double quick afore he does his heart a mischief.”
Hektor nodded and carried on at once, but Aiden paused for a moment.
“I’ve a buckle that needs mendin’, Judee. You got time?”
She nodded. “Send it over with Paddy. I’ll have it done by your shift’s end.”
“Thanks.”
As he made to follow his younger brother, her expression turned serious. “Really, Aiden, get that old fool sorted out, will you? His rantin’s bad for business, an’ not just for him; for the whole Close.”
“We will.”
“You tell him he’s scarin’ his grandbaby. That might do it.”
He nodded, catching up with Hektor as he made—with some reluctance—for the small iron shop across the street and three doors down. Like most businesses in this part of Haven, it was little more than eight feet wide, with two horizontal shutters at the front. The top was supported on tall posts to provide an awning for the bottom, which, supported on two shorter posts, acted as a display counter for tools, nails, hinges, handles, and whatever other bits of ironwork the proprietor thought might lure a customer inside. The brightly painted sign depicting a bell flanked by two ornate candlesticks above a decorative anvil declared the owner to be a master smith capable of crafting more refined objects than mere horseshoes and hammers. But what had always set Edzel’s shop apart from the others and what had kept Hektor, Aiden, and many of the boys their age coming in and braving the smith’s legendary temper was that in his prime, Edzel Smith had made toys of extraordinary skill: tops and jacks, metal whistles, tin flutes, and polished iron marbles, lead guardsmen with arms and legs that actually moved, and tiny, beautifully crafted Heralds and their Companions, painted a heavy, enameled white. Hektor remembered saving his pennybits for months just to be able to afford a single articulated watchman no bigger than his forefinger when he’d been nine years old. Edzel’s daughter, Ismy, had given him another when he was twelve.
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