Skif thought fleetingly of the number of times he’d taken food from Lord Orthallen’s pantry—and hoped it hadn’t made difficulties for that cook.
Odd. He wouldn’t have spared a thought for that yesterday.
“Now. Healed, fed, and ready for Dean Elcarth?” Teren didn’t wait for an answer, but strode off, heading for the stairs.
This time they walked through the corridor that held all the classrooms; again, it was lit by means of windows over each classroom door. From the spacing, the rooms were probably twice the size of the one they’d given Skif.
Why so many and so much room?
Maybe in case it was needed. Just because they only had forty-six Trainees now didn’t mean they couldn’t have more at some other time. And Teren had said that the classes were shared with Bardic and Healer Trainees—and those others. That would be interesting.
They passed through the double doors that marked the boundary between Collegium and Herald’s Wing, and Teren turned immediately to a door on the left. “This is where I’ll leave you for now. I will see you tomorrow, and we’ll start Basic Orientation. And a couple of the other introductory classes. That way, when everyone gets back and Collegium classes start again, you’ll be able to join right up.”
He tapped on the door; a muffled sound answered, and Teren opened it, and putting a hand just between Skif’s shoulder blades, gently propelled Skif inside before he got a chance to hesitate.
The door shut behind him.
Skif found himself in a cluttered room, a very small room, but one that, from the open door to the side, must be part of a larger suite. There were four things in this room, besides Dean Elcarth; books, papers, chairs, and a desk. There were bookshelves built into the wall that were crammed full of books; books and papers were piled on every available surface. Elcarth motioned to Skif to come in and take the only chair that wasn’t holding more books, one with a deep seat and leather padding that was cracked and crazed with age.
He sat in it gingerly, since it didn’t look either sturdy or comfortable. He should have known better; nothing bad that he’d assumed about the Heralds ever turned out to be right. The chair proved to be both sturdy and comfortable, and it fit him as if it had been intended for him.
Herald Elcarth folded his hands under his chin, and regarded Skif with a mild gaze. “You,” he said at last, “are a puzzle. I must say that Myste and I have searched through every Chronicle of the Collegium, and I cannot find a single instance of a thief being Chosen. We’ve had several attempted suicides, three murderers—which, I will grant, were all self-defense, and one of them was Lavan Firestorm, but nevertheless, they were murderers. We’ve had a carnival trickster, a horse sharper, and a girl who pretended to be a witch, told fortunes which turned out to be correct ForeSight, but also took money for curses she never performed, relying instead on the fact that she’d be long gone before anyone noticed that nothing bad had happened to the person she cursed. We’ve had a former assassin. We’ve even had a spy. But we’ve never had a thief.”
Skif tried to read his expression, and didn’t get any clues from it. Elcarth merely seemed interested.
“So, I have to ask myself, Skif. Why you? What is it about you that is so different that a Companion would Choose you?” He tilted his head to the side, looking even more birdlike. “Alberich, by the way, has told me nothing of why he recognized you. In fact, he didn’t say much at all about you, except that he knew who you were, but until Kantor told him, he had not known you were specifically a thief.”
“What d’ye wanta know?” Skif asked. The best way to limit the damage might be to get Elcarth to ask questions, so that he could carefully tailor his answers.
“More to the point, what do you want to tell me?” Elcarth countered. “Usually—not always, but usually—the Chosen sitting where you are start pouring out their life stories to me. Are you going to be any different?”
“I ain’t the kind t’pour out m’life story to anybody,” Skif replied, trying not to sound sullen, wondering just how much he was going to have to say to satisfy the Dean’s curiosity. “I dunno. I ain’t never hurt nobody. I stick t’the liftin’ lay an’ roof work. . . .”
He hadn’t given a second thought to whether Elcarth would understand the cant, but Elcarth nodded. “Picking pockets and house theft. Which explains why you were in that park in broad daylight. Taking advantage of the fact that no one was about in the heat, hmm?”
Skif blinked. How had—
“Your trail out of the city was shatteringly obvious,” Elcarth pointed out. “Not to mention hazardous. From the moment Cymry left the park with you, there were witnesses, many of them members of the City Guard. But that only tells me what you do, not what you are—and it’s what you are that is what I need to know.” At Skif’s silence, he prodded a little more. “Your parents?”
“Dead,” he answered shortly. But try as he might, he couldn’t stand firm in the face of Elcarth’s gentle, but ruthless and relentless questioning. Before very long, Elcarth knew something of his Uncle Londer, of Beel, and of Bazie and Bazie’s collection of “boys”—and he knew what had happened to all of them. Especially Bazie. And he knew about the fire.
He managed to keep most of the details to himself, though; at least he thought he did. The last thing he wanted was to start unloading his rage on Elcarth. It was a handle to Skif’s character that Skif didn’t want the Dean to have.
But he didn’t manage to keep back as much as he would have liked, though, and just talking about it made his chest go tight, his back tense, and his stomach churn with unspoken emotion. Part of him wanted to tell this gentle man everything—but that was the “new” part of him. The old part did not want him to be talking at all, and was going mad trying to keep him from opening his mouth any more than he had.
Fortunately at that point, Elcarth changed the subject entirely, quizzing him on reading, figuring, writing, and other subjects. That was what he had expected, although he didn’t care for it, and his stomach soon settled again. It took longer for the tension to leave his back and chest, but that was all right. The tension reminded him that he needed to be careful.
Outside the office, the day moved on, and the heat wave hadn’t broken. Thick as these stone walls were, the heat still got into Elcarth’s office and both of them were fanning themselves with stray papers before the interview was over. “I think I can place you, now,” Elcarth said, by late afternoon. “But I’m going to be putting you in one class you probably aren’t going to appreciate.”
“Figuring!” Skif groaned.
“Actually—no. Not immediately. I’m going to ask Gaytha to teach you how to speak properly.” Elcarth sat back and waited for Skif’s reaction.
If he’d expected Skif to show resentment, he got a surprise himself. “Huh. I s’pose I can see that—though you shoulda ’eard—heard—me afore—before—Bazie got hold of me.” Actually he wasn’t at all displeased. You didn’t get to be a good thief by being unobservant, and Skif had known very well that his speech patterns would mark him out in any crowd as coming from the “bad part of town” near Exile’s Gate. If he was going to consort with the highborn and be taken seriously, he’d better stop dropping his “h’s”.
Among other things.
And he might as well start being careful about how he spoke now. “Is that all you want with me?” he asked, watching every syllable, adding as an afterthought, “sir.”
“For now.” Elcarth studied him, and Skif forced himself not to squirm uncomfortably under that unwavering gaze. “I hope eventually you’ll feel freer to talk to me, Skif.” He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, then changed his mind. “I believe you have another interview before you—”
“I—” Skif began, but a tap on the door interrupted him.
“Come!” called Elcarth, and the door was opened by Herald Alberich. Who was, of course, the very last person that Skif wanted to see at this moment, when Elcarth had him feeling so unba
lanced and unsettled.
Alberich looked at him for a moment, but not with the gaze of a hawk with prey in sight, but with a more measuring, even stare. “Come, I have, to take our new one off, Elcarth,” he said simply. “Companion’s Field, I think. Cooler it will be there.”
“Well, I’m satisfied with him, so he’s all yours,” Elcarth replied, making Skif wince a little. But Alberich smiled, ever so slightly.
“Your Cymry is anxious to see the work of the Healer,” he said to Skif. “And it is that I have evaluation of my own to make. Please—come.”
He reached out and beckoned with one hand, and Skif got reluctantly to his feet.
Unlike Teren, Alberich did not seem inclined to lead Skif anywhere. Instead, he paced gravely beside Skif, hands clasped behind his back, indicating direction with a jerk of his chin. They left the Herald’s Wing by the same door through which they’d first entered the Collegium; Skif recognized the spot immediately. There were plenty of trees here, and Skif was glad of the shade. And glad of the light color of the Trainee uniform. He hated to think what it would have been like if the outfit had been black.
“To the riverbank, I think,” Alberich said, with one of those chin jerks. “You are puzzled by my accent.”
“Well—aye,” Skif admitted. “Never heard naught like it.”
“Nor will you. It is from Karse that I am. A Captain I was, in the service of Vkandis Sunlord.” With a glance at Skif’s startled face, Alberich then turned his face up toward the cloudless sky. “We have something in common, I think. Or will have. The thief and the traitor—neither to be trusted. Outside the Heraldic Circle, that is.”
Skif swallowed hard. A Karsite. A Karsite officer. From the army of Valdemar ’s most implacable enemy.
“But—why—”
“That is what I—we, for Kantor suggested this—wish to be telling you,” Alberich said gravely as they approached the riverbank. His face cleared, then, as they rounded a section of topiary bushes and the river appeared, dazzling in the sun. “Ah, there they are!”
Two Companions waited for them, and Skif knew Cymry from the other immediately, though how, he couldn’t have said. He rushed to greet her, and as he touched her, he felt enveloped in that same wonderful feeling that had been creeping in all afternoon, past doubts, past fears, past every obstacle. He pulled her head down to his chest and ran his hands along her cheeks, while she breathed into his tunic and made little contented sounds. He could have stayed that way for the rest of the afternoon. . . .
But Alberich cleared his throat politely after a time, and Skif pulled away from her with great reluctance. “A grotto there is, in the riverbank. Cool as a cellar in this heat, and our Companions will enjoy it as well.”
Cymry seemed to know exactly where they were going, so Skif let her lead him. Skif kept one hand on her neck and followed along. She led him down a steeply-sloped, grassy bank to the edge of the river itself, and there, partly out of sight from the lawn above, was a kind of ornamental cave carved into the bank, just as Alberich had said. It was just about tall enough to stand up inside, and held three curved, stone benches at the back. Nicely paved, ceilinged, and walled with flagstone, it was wonderfully cool in there, and the two Companions took up positions just inside, switching their tails idly, as Alberich and Skif took seats on built-in benches at the back.
This wasn’t so bad. Without the Herald looming over him, without actually having to look him in the eyes, Skif felt more comfortable. And in the dim coolness, the Herald seemed a bit more relaxed. Alberich cleared his throat again, as soon as they settled. “So. It is you who have been telling tales for the most of today. Let someone else, for a candlemark.”
“Suits,” Skif said shortly, and leaned back into the curved stone bench.
“Karse,” Alberich began, meditatively. “I left my land, and to an extent, my God. They call me traitor there. Think you—it is odd, that I love them both, still?”
“I dunno,” Skif replied honestly. “Dunno much ‘bout gods, an’—truth t’tell, I never thought overmuch ’bout anythin’ like a whole country. Mostly didn’ think ’bout much past m’own streets.”
Alberich nodded a little, his gaze fixed on the river flowing outside the grotto. “No reason there was, why you should.”
Skif shrugged. “ Ol’ Bazie, he didn’ think much of Karse, an’ I reckon he thought pretty well of Valdemar, when it comes down t’cases. Least—” Skif thought hard for a moment, back to those memories that he hadn’t wanted to think about at all for a very long time now. “Huh. When he lost ‘is legs, ’twasn’t Karse as saw ‘im Healed, nor the Tedrels. ’Twas Valdemar. An’ he ‘ad some good things t’say ’bout Heralds.”
“Tell me,” Alberich urged mildly, and Skif did. It was surprising, when he came to think about it, how much good Bazie had said about Valdemar and its Heralds, especially considering that he’d fought against both.
Alberich sighed. “I love my land and my God,” he said, when Skif was through. “But—both have been—are being—ill served. And that is neither the fault of the land, nor the God.”
He told his story concisely, using as few words as possible, but Skif got a vivid impression of what the younger Alberich must have been like. And when he described being trapped in a building that was deliberately set afire to execute him, Skif found himself transposing that horror to what Bazie and the boys must have felt.
But there had been no Companion leaping through the flames to save them. There had been no happy ending for Bazie.
“It was the King’s Own and another Herald who came at Kantor’s call,” Alberich said meditatively. “Which was, for my sake, a good thing. Few would question Talamir’s word, fewer dared to do so aloud. So I was Healed, and I learned—yes,” he said, after he glanced at Skif. “Oh, smile you may, that into Grays I went, and back to schooling at that age! A sight, I surely was!” He shook his head.
“Why?” Skif asked. “Why didn’ you just tell ’em t’ make you a Herald straight off?”
“And knowing nothing of Heralds or Valdemar? Stubborn I am often, stupid, never. Much I had to unlearn. More did others have to learn of me. Selenay, after Talamir, was my friend and advocate—after them, others. More than enough work there was here, to keep me at the Collegium, replacing the aged Weaponsmaster. More than enough reason to stay, that others have me beneath their eye, and so feel control over me in their hands.” He smiled sardonically. “Did they know what I learn for the Queen here, it is that they would send me out to the farthest Border ere I could take breath thrice.”
Since Skif had seen him at work, he snickered. Alberich bestowed a surprisingly mild glance on him.
“Now, your turn, it is, for answering questions,” he said, and Skif steeled himself. “But first of all, because I would know—why choose to be a thief?”
An odd question, and as unexpected as one of Alberich’s rare smiles. Skif shrugged. “’Twas that—or slave for m’nuncle Londer. Wasn’t much else goin’—an’ Bazie was all right.”
His heart contracted at that. All right! What a niggardly thing to say about a man who had been friend, teacher, and in no small part, savior! Yet—if he said more, he put his heart within reach of this Herald, this Alberich, who had already said in so many words that he would use anything to safeguard Valdemar, the Queen, and the Heralds. . . .
And that’s bad, how? whispered that new side of him.
Shut up! replied the old.
Skif became aware that a moment of silence had lengthened into something that Alberich might use to put a question. He filled it, quickly. “Bazie was pretty good t’us, actually.” He paused. “You gonna Truth Spell me again?”
Alberich shook his head. “What I did was done in need and haste. Much there is I would learn of you, but most of it will wait. And what I would know, I think you will tell freely for the sake of your friends.”
So now, for a second time, Alberich asked questions about Jass and Jass’ master, this time helping Skif t
o pry out the least and littlest morsel of information in his memory. This time, though, the questions came thoughtfully, as slow as the heat-heavy air drifting above the riverbank and cloaking it in shimmer, each question considered and answered with the same care. Alberich was right about this much. In this case, Alberich’s goals and Skif’s were one, and the two voices inside him were at peace with one another.
The light had turned golden as they spoke, and the heat shimmer faded. There had been a long time since the last question, and Skif slowly became aware that lunch was wearing thin. As his stomach growled, Alberich glanced over at him again, with a half-smile.
“You know your way about, I think,” the Weaponsmaster said. “Tomorrow we will meet, and you will begin your training with me, and with others.”
Then, with no other word of farewell, Alberich rose and stalked out, his Companion falling in at his side like a well-trained drill partner.
“You’ve been mighty quiet,” Skif said to Cymry in the silence.
:You were doing perfectly well without me,: she replied, with a saucy switch of her tail. :Well. Here you are, left perfectly alone on the Palace grounds. You can go and do whatever you want; no keeper, no guardian. You could go climb to the Palace roof if you wanted to, bearing in mind the Queen’s Guard might catch you. Or hasn’t that occurred to you yet?:
It hadn’t, and the revelation hit him like a bucket of cold water.
“You sure?” he gasped.
:As sure as I’m standing here.: She switched her tail again, but this time with impatience. :They trust you. Isn’t it time you started to trust them? Just start, that’s all.:
An odd, heavy feeling came into his throat. Once again, the sense that something portentous had happened, something that he didn’t understand, came over him.
It was more than uncomfortable, it was unsettling, in the sense of feeling the world he knew suddenly shift into something he no longer recognized.
“I’m hungry,” he announced, hastily shunting it all aside. “An’ I reckon I saw some ham an’ bacon in that pantry.”
Valdemar 07 - Take a Thief Page 25
