"You don't intend to spar with those things while riding Companions?" one of the Heralds asked.
"Hear me out." Chavi turned to his year-mates and began passing out his creations, one to each. "The rules are simple. Mount your Companions and I shall explain."
As they climbed into their saddles, Chavi whispered to his year-mates, "Now I have no idea if this is going to work." Gildi and Kem exchanged knowing glances, for Chavi never made disclaimers like that unless he was sure of success. "But let's at least put on a good show, eh?"
Switching back into a performer's voice, Chavi continued explaining the rules. "I'm sure you are all familiar with the games of stickball and football played by children? What we are about to play is a mix of both." From one of Tecla's saddlebags he brought forth a small wooden ball wrapped in leather and tossed it to the ground. "That is the object of our pursuit. To manipulate it, we use these." Chavi held aloft his creation in demonstration and, swinging down, gave the ball a solid crack which sent it rolling off through the grass. There was a burst of applause from the audience, in response to which Chavi stood in his stirrups and bowed to them, before continuing.
"The game is played by two teams of three players each. Why this number? Because more Companions and Heralds than that on the field of play at once would be disaster." He smiled. "There are also that number among my year-mates and myself, and since I am inventing this game, that is what I decided. Besides, it takes forever to make the mallets.
"Some, Kem, and Gildi are one team; your goal is those two trees over there marked with yellow ribbons. Grav, Fiz, and myself guard the goal on the other side of the field marked by blue ribbons. Points are scored by knocking the ball through the opposing team's goal." Chavi paused to let all this information sink in and smiled out at the assembled crowd. They were listening raptly for his every word, and Chavi exulted in the sensation while his year-mates made practice swings with their mallets, testing the distance between themselves and the ground.
"Are there no precautionary rules?" the Healer nervously asked at last, breaking the silence.
Chavi smiled kindly at her, wondering what Gildi had told her of his earlier experiments. "Indeed there are. While our Companions are quite capable at taking care of themselves, and us, we shall not put them at unnecessary risk. No hitting Companions or riders with your mallets or fists, although I would hazard to say that leaning heavily against someone as you rode them off would be fair, so long as your hands stayed over your own saddle. No sticking your mallet under or between the legs of a Companion, even for the sake of hitting the ball. Furthermore, no lifting the mallet head higher than your shoulder, so you don't endanger those of us topside. And finally, the rider who has control of the ball (with his mallet—touching the ball at any time with your hands will result in a penalty) the rider who has the ball, also has the right of way to follow after it for a second swing. This means you cannot ride in front of him, in a perpendicular path, and stop there. The object of the game is not to get injured, nor to wind up with all our Companions smacked into each other.
"Now, is everyone set on these rules?" His year-mates nodded, and the Healer looked content. "Then let's play ball."
Chaos quickly descended upon the field, and had it not been for the precautionary rules (which the Companions remembered, reminding their riders whenever they forgot) all six players would have wound up in the House of Healing after the first five minutes of practice, never having the chance to move into full fledged play. Grav's first swing at the ball was so wild he fell from the saddle. He turned as scarlet as a Bard's garb, but climbed back on and tried again.
"If you stand up in the stirrups like this," Chavi advised, "and lean from the waist, you should find it easier to keep your seat." Chavi had, of course, taken all his tumbles days ago when no one was around to see them.
Grav followed Chavi's instructions and gave the ball a nice, solid whack, knocking it over the bystanders' heads.
"Careful there!" the Bardic trainee shouted as he ducked the projectile.
Grav apologized, but he was feeling smug as he turned to Fiz and said, "Your turn."
Fiz fared slightly better than Grav, in that he did not fall off his horse on his first swing. However, he did not hit the ball. After his seventh missed swing, the crowd was wild with laughter that far exceeded what Grav's fall had earned. The expression of frustration on Fiz's face each time he swung was enough to redouble their mirth. As he was winding up for an eighth swing, Fedele brought Gildi alongside of him and she blocked his mallet's arc with her own.
"I would have hit it that time!" Fiz screamed, sending the crowd of onlookers into hysterics.
Gildi merely gave him a sarcastic look and tapped the ball out of Fiz's reach. However, when Fedele walked up to it and she took a second swing, she missed too. Grav lost no time in riding behind her, standing up in his stirrups as Chavi had told him, and giving the ball another good, solid crack. It sailed into the audience once more.
"That's twice," the Bardic trainee said as he ducked again.
Just then, Efrem lost control of the potato he had been peeling, and it slipped out of his hands. With a mixture of shame and curiosity he watched its arc as it left his hands and knocked the trainee in the back of the head, where he knelt in "safety" behind a bush.
"Herald, thy days are numbered," the Bardic trainee thundered as he turned to face his assailant-from-behind. "Thy lack of skill with a blade shall henceforth go down in the annals of history in the 'Ballad of How Efrem Lost the Battle of Potato Picnic.' Let thy infamy precede thee wherever thou go." He sat down with his back to a nearby tree and began composing verses as he watched the rest of the game.
"You know, he's right," Eladi told Efrem after they had all laughed heartily. She handed him some of her carrots to peel, hoping he would have more luck with them. "I mean, if Alberich had seen you—" She shuddered, the thought too unpleasant to contemplate.
"What do you mean if?" a voice behind them asked. Eladi turned to find the weapon's master standing behind them. Efrem did not need to look to know who it was; the overwhelming feeling of impending doom was enough.
The game was as exhilarating as Chavi imagined it would be, once everyone had mastered the rudiments of play and the actual game was underway. It moved at a remarkably fast clip, the entire thrust shifting to the other side of the field as a backhand swing sent the ball arcing toward the other goal.
Gildi served as a highly efficient captain for her team, masterminding a myriad of strategies which Chavi took careful note of. She was less concerned with scoring the most points herself than in helping her team to the most points. Her favorite tactic was to ride up alongside someone as he was about to take a shot and block his mallet with her own. Then, one of her team mates, who had been instructed to follow her, took the ball back toward the other goal. Through Mindspeech, team members were only a thought away as strategy decisions were relayed to them by their Companions.
Fiz proved to be an excellent backhand, although he still had difficulties with his forward shot. Grav was the powerhouse hitter, often sending the ball arcing out of bounds (usually toward the audience). Kem and Some were both adequate players, but they never really excelled at anything in particular. Chavi kept worrying that they weren't enjoying themselves.
:You're daydreaming again: Tecla warned him. :Keep your eyes on the ball. We're going for the shot.:
Chavi relinquished his musings to the game. He focused on the ball, stood up in his stirrups, and swung. He connected, and a moment later whooped with delight as the ball rolled into the unprotected yellow goal.
Chavi held one of his creations aloft and decided that, yes, he was more than just pleased with them. He was elated. The game was seen as a general success by one and all. The Bardic trainee had begun a second ballad about the day's events, featuring Chavi as its hero. Chavi was grateful that he had changed his mind before asking the man to "Move along." As the game progressed and she was not called upon in her off
icial function, the Healer let herself relax enough to enjoy the sport. Word had spread quickly once the game was underway, and the audience had swelled to five times its original size. Even the Queen herself showed up to watch. Aside from thinking it looked like fun, Heralds were interested in the game for the combat training and equitation skills it provided.
Everyone wanted a mallet of their own. Chavi was beside himself with pleasure.
As his tired but happy year-mates dismounted and relinquished their mallets to other Heralds who wished to try them, Chavi began congratulating himself. "Yes, yet another successful experiment brought to you by the one and only Chavi the magnificent, inventor of innumerable wondrous inventions, including the—"
Gildi Mindspoke to Fedele, who passed the message on to Tecla, who dumped Chavi into the river.
"All right, all right," Chavi said, as he dragged himself, soaking wet, onto the shore, where his year-mates waited, ready to toss him back in depending on his attitude. "So I had a little help from my friends."
Choice
by Michelle West
Michelle West has written two novels for DAW, Hunter's Oath and Hunter's Death, and, with any luck, is finishing her third, The Broken Crown, by now. She likes the Heralds, but couldn't imagine being one—she's the only fantasy writer she knows who's never been up on the back of a horse for fear of breaking her arm in three places when she came off it. Not that she lets cowardice rule her life, of course. Well, not often.
When Kelsey saw the white horse enter the pasture runs, she stopped breathing for a moment and squinted into the distance. Then she saw the Herald Whites of the man who walked just beside it, and with a pang of disappointment she continued across the green toward the inn. Shaking her head, she grimaced just before she took a deep breath and walked through the wide, serviceable doors.
"Kelsey, you're late. Again."
"How can you tell?" She pulled her dark hair back from her square face, twisted it into a makeshift coil, and wrapped it up with a small swathe of black silk—a parting gift from a friend who'd left the town to join a merchant caravan. It was the finest thing she owned, and the fact that she used it in day-to-day wear said a lot about her. Not, of course, that she had very many other places to wear it.
"Don't get smart with me," Torvan Peterson snapped, more for show than in anger. He had very little hair left, and professed a great resentment for anyone who managed to retain theirs, he was obviously a man who liked food and ale a little overmuch, and he owned the very practically named Torvan's Tavern. Children made games with that name, but not often in his presence. "Not," he added, "that I would disparage an improvement in your intellect." He stared at her expectantly, and she grimaced. "Well, out with it, girl. If you're going to be late, you can at least amuse me with a colorful excuse."
She rolled her eyes, donned her apron, and picked up a bar rag. "We've got a Herald as a guest."
"Chatting her up?"
"He, and no."
"Hardly much of an excuse, then. All right. The tables need cleaning. The lunchtime crowd was rather messy."
She could see that quite clearly.
On normal days, it wasn't so hard to come and work; work was a routine that added necessary punctuation to her life. She saw her friends here—the few that still remained within reach of the inn—and met strangers who traveled the trade routes with gossip, tales of outland adventures, and true news.
But when a Herald rode through, it made her whole life seem trivial and almost meaningless. She worked quickly, cleaning up crumbs and spills as she thought about her childhood dreams, and the woman who had—while she lived—encouraged them.
"You can be whatever you choose, Kelsey," her grandmother was fond of saying. "You've only to put your mind and your shoulders to it, and you'll do us all proud."
Kelsey snorted and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. I can be whatever I choose, but I'll never be Chosen. In her youth she'd believed that to be Chosen by one of the Companions was a reward for merit. She'd done everything she could think of to be the perfect, good little girl, the perfect lady, the little hero. She had forsworn the usual childhood greed and the usual childhood rumbles for her studies with her grandmother; she had learned, in a fashion, to wield a weapon, and to think her way clear of troublesome situations without panicking much. Well, except for the small stampede of the cattle back at Pherson's, but anyone could be expected to be a little bit off their color in the midst of their first stampede.
She had done her best never to cheat or lie—excepting those lies that courtesy required; she shared every bounty she was given; in short, she had struggled to lead an exemplary life.
And for her pains, she had drifted into work at Torvan's Tavern, listening to her friends, encouraging and supporting their dreams, no matter how wild, and watching them, one by one, drift out of her life, either by marriage, by childbirth, or by jobs that had taken them out of the village.
She had her dream, but it was a distant one now, and it only stung her when she came face to face with the fact that someone else—some other person, through no work, no effort, no obvious virtue of their own—was living the life that she had dreamed of and yearned for ever since she could remember.
Still, if the Heralds—they never traveled alone—came in for a meal and left their Companions in the pasture runs, she could sneak out for a few minutes and watch them, and pretend. Because no matter how stupid it was, she couldn't let go of her dream.
It was clear from the moment he walked into the tavern that something was wrong. Heralds were able—although how, she wasn't certain—to keep their Whites white and in very good repair, and this Herald's Whites were neither. He was pale, and the moment he stepped out of the glare of the doorway, she saw why; his arm was bound, but bleeding, and his face was scraped and bruised.
"Excuse me," he said, in a very quiet, but very urgent voice, "I need help. My Companion is injured."
Heralds seldom traveled alone. Kelsey tucked her rag into her apron pocket and made the distance between the table and the door before Torvan had lifted the bar's gate.
"What—what happened?"
He shook his head, and it was obvious, this close up, that he was near collapse. She put an arm under his arms—she was not a weak woman—and half-walked, half-dragged him to a chair. "Don't worry about me," he said softly, his face graying. "She's hurt, and she needs help."
"Why don't I worry about both of you?" Kelsey replied, mimicking the stern tone of her grandmother in crisis. "Torvan—send Raymon for the doctor, and send Karin for the vet!" The Herald started to rise, and she blocked him with her arm. "And where do you think you're going?"
He opened his eyes at the tone of her voice, and studied her face as if truly seeing her for the first time. Then he smiled wanly. "Nowhere, ma'am," he replied. It was then that she realized that he was probably twice her age, with gray streaks through his long braid and two faded scars across his neck and cheek. His features were fine-boned, unlike her own; he looked like the son of a noble, except it was obvious that he was used to doing his own work.
"Good. What are you smiling at?"
"You. You remind me of my grandmother." The smile faded as he winced; his expression grew distant again. She knew that he was seeing not only the loss of the Herald he traveled his circuit with—for she was certain that that Herald must be dead—but also the fear of the loss of his Companion.
She brought him an ale and made him drink; he finished most of it before the doctors—human and animal—arrived.
"If you make her travel on the leg, you can probably get a few more miles down the road, but you'll lame her," the vet said, staring intently at the cleaned gash across the knee. "I don't know much about Companions—but I do know that if she were a horse, she would never have made it this far." That he didn't offer more, and in the lecturing tone that he was wont to use, showed his respect for the Herald.
The Herald—who called himself Carris, although that was clearly not his ful
l name—nodded grimly and wiped the sweat absently from his forehead with a handkerchief. His uniform was safely in the tub in Kelsey's room, and he wore no obvious weapons, although a sword and a bow were in easy reach. "How long will it be until she can travel safely?"
"Hard to say," the older man replied.
Cams nodded again, absorbing the words. The doctor had been and gone, and Kelsey had been forced to rather harsh words with both doctor and Herald before an uneasy truce had been reached between them.
"You don't interfere with His Majesty's business," she'd snarled at Dr. Lessar. "And you—what did you think we called the doctor for? He'll bind and treat that arm—and those ribs—even if you feel it's necessary to go out and break them again. Is that clear?"
The doctor laughed. "And you're telling me how to talk to a Herald?"
Oddly enough, the Herald laughed as well. And he did submit to the doctor's care, electing to more quietly ignore most of the doctor's subsequent advice.
Torvan accepted Kelsey's desertion with as much grace as he could muster during the season when the trade route was at its busiest and the tavern could be expected to have the most traffic. She did what she could to lend a hand between the doctors' visits with Carris and his Companion, but it was clear that she felt them both to be her concern, and clearer still that the Herald was almost in bad enough shape to need it, so he gruffly chased her out of the dining room and told her to finish off her business.
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