Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I thought you were doin’ deliveries for the bakery this mornin’,” their mother said with a frown.

  “Traded with Ollie so as I could be at the watchhouse.”

  “The captain may not post today,” Hektor warned him, casting a quick look for Aiden, but their elder brother was now deep in conversation with their grandfather and was at least pretending not to hear them.

  “He’ll post,” Padreic insisted. “Aiden’ll make sergeant an’ I’ll come on as watchhouse runner, you’ll see.”

  Hektor frowned down at him. “Maybe. But all the same, keep quiet about it till then, all right?”

  “But Hek ...”

  “No buts. Now hurry up or we’ll be late.”

  Padreic obediently set the ball to one side and stood.

  “Tell your brothers to be careful today,” their mother called after them as Aiden joined them at the door. “I don’t hold with double shifts, whatever the pay might be, and I don’t want ’em so tired that they slip up.”

  “We’ll tell ’em.”

  “And you be careful, too. Things might get out of hand out there.”

  “We know.”

  “Then know safer.”

  The three Dann boys took the tenement stairs two at a time, emerging into the bright sunlight a moment later. The Iron Street watchhouse was ten long blocks away, and they walked quickly, nodding to their neighbors as they went. The Danns had lived on Iron Street for as long as there’d been a street and had served at the Iron Street watchhouse for as long as there’d been a watchhouse. Ordinarily the street would be bustling with people at this time of the morning, all talking and trading, arguing and calling out their own greetings, but the fire had cast a pall of nervous suspicion over the entire neighborhood. All eyes tracked their progress and Hektor did his best to ignore the growing sense of unrest until a burly figure stepped in front of them. Beside him, he felt his older brother stiffen.

  “Mornin’, Linton,” Hektor said casually.

  “Mornin’, Watchmen.” The large, beefy mastersmith cocked his head to one side.

  “You an’ your brother gonna be guardin’ the iron market rebuild today, Corporal?” he asked Aiden pointedly.

  Aiden’s expression hardened. “That’ll be up to the captain,” he answered in a neutral tone.

  The smith spat a gob of spittle onto the cobblestones. “Yeah, well, the captain’s not from around here, is he? He’s only been on the job a few months. Hope he’s got enough sense to do what’s expected of ’im. I hear it’s postin’ day an’ all.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Figure he’ll name you sergeant now that your Da’s gone?”

  Aiden gave a noncommittal shrug, but Hektor saw a muscle in his jaw begin to jump. “Hard to say,” he answered stiffly.

  “ ’Course he will,” Padreic replied, then yelped as Aiden clipped his ear.

  “I only ask ’cause the whole street wants to know,” the smith continued, ignoring Aiden’s warning expression. “The fire hurt a lot of families here. We wanna know there’ll be justice done on account of most folk think it was a Candler’s Row crew what set the fire in the first place.”

  “The Guard investigated an’ said it was an accident,” Hektor said at once.

  “An’ rumor-mongerin’ ain’t ’elpin’ any,” Aiden added darkly.

  “It ain’t rumor-mongerin’, it’s belief. An’ a belief shared by half the Iron Street Watch if they was to own up to it,” the smith snarled in reply, jabbing a finger at him. “Your own Da suspected a Candler’s Row crew of sowin’ nails into the ground around the market last year what gave Charlie Woar the gangrene an’ lost him his leg. An’ as I remember, Aiden Dann, you wasn’t too high an’ mighty back then to go up there an’ settle the score with your fists.”

  “That was then, Linton,” Aiden growled. “Times have changed.”

  “Not by that much, they ain’t.”

  “Then they’d better start. Anyone headin’ over to Candler’s Row is gonna get their heads busted by the Watch, you hear?” Aiden glared around the street, daring anyone to gainsay him.

  “Your Da woulda seen to it by now,” the smith pointed out. “Course your Da woulda made captain afore the inquiry caused some fool incomer to be brought in,” he added. “That’s when all this trouble started.”

  Aiden’s face darkened dangerously. “Get out of our way, Linton,” he grated.

  The smith’s eyes narrowed, but he stepped aside as Aiden pushed past him. When the other two made to follow, he caught Hektor by the arm. “No one blames Aiden for your Da not gettin’ that promotion,” he hissed, “nor for the fire neither, but it’s up to you lot to do somethin’ about it; not the Guard, you, the Danns. Don’t forget where you live, boy.”

  Hektor shook him off. “We live in Haven, Linton,” he snarled. “Don’t you forget that.” But his expression mirrored the smith’s as he followed Aiden up the street.

  The Iron Street watchhouse was crowded with watchmen, both on duty and off, when they arrived. Gesturing Padreic toward a broom, Aiden stalked past them, but Hektor paused, glancing at the captain’s closed door with a frown. “Has he posted yet?”

  As one, the gathered shook their heads.

  “It outta be Aiden,” one of the older men said quietly. “Course, it’s anyone’s guess what the captain’ll do, bein’ ... you know, from outside and all, but it outta be Aiden.”

  Hektor nodded, then turned as Jakon and Raik pushed their way through the crowd toward him.

  “How’re the streets last night?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Tense,” Jakon answered. “People are huddlin’ in the taverns, just sitting there an’ talkin’.”

  “An’ everyone falls quiet when we go by,” Raik added.

  “Everyone always falls quiet when we go by,” Hektor reminded them. “We’re the Watch.”

  “Not like this,” Raik argued. “It’s like everyone’s watchin’ us, waitin’ to see what we’re gonna do about the fire.”

  “Waitin’ to see what Aiden’ll do mostly,” Jakon amended.

  “Aiden’s not gonna do anythin’,” Hektor said firmly. “It was an accident.”

  “Nobody’s believes that, Hek. Hell, even I don’t believe it.”

  “And maybe Aiden should do somethin’ about it, anyway,” Raik added. “I mean, we can’t just sit back and let this sort of thing happen again. We have to protect the street.”

  “It was an accident,” Hektor repeated.

  Neither brother looked convinced.

  “Think the captain’ll post today?” Raik asked, changing the subject.

  Hektor just shrugged.

  “Think he’ll make Aiden sergeant after the inquiry an’ all?”

  Hektor sighed. “I dunno, Raik,” he said.

  “Anything you do know, Hek?”

  “Yeah. I know Ma said to be careful.”

  Both brothers gave an equal snort. “We will.”

  With it clear that the captain was not going to post that morning, most of the watchmen disappeared swiftly. Hektor was on his way out the door with his patrol mate, Kiel Wright, when the captain stuck his head out his office door. Signaling Kiel to wait, he gestured Hektor inside.

  Captain Travin Torell was an older man with a more refined air than most of the Iron Street watchmen. Originally from Breakneedle Street—one wall and an entire world away—he’d served as that watchhouse’s lieutenant before been being promoted to Iron Street’s captaincy last year after the inquiry into the events surrounding Charlie Woar’s injury. Hektor had done his best to avoid the tension between first his father and then his older brother, and the new captain. Now he closed the door, waiting to see what he wanted with as neutral an expression as possible.

  “You’ve been with the Watch for some time now, haven’t you?” the captain said at once.

  Hektor nodded cautiously. “Came on as a full watchman five years ago, sir,” he allowed. “I was a runner before that.”

  “
And before that a sweeper like your brother Padreic,” the captain added. “Like every Dann on the street, or so I’ve been told. A family tradition, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes.” Staring out at the watchhouse yard beyond his window, the captain tucked his hands behind his back. “The Danns have been an integral part of the Watch since time immemorial,” he said almost to himself. “And I’m sure that, in the past, their methods served the city well enough, but times have changed, and so must all our methods.”

  He turned. “The veterans speak highly of you. They say that you have an even temper and a decent grasp of the law. You should go far.”

  Hektor’s eyes narrowed cautiously. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And the Watch needs men with even tempers in these uncertain times,” the captain continued. “Men who can lead by the proper example. This trouble between Iron Street and Candler’s Row, for example; I doubt whether anyone even remembers how it began. But I will tell you this, Watchman, it’s going to stop.” He jabbed a finger in Hektor’s direction. “I won’t tolerate acts of retaliation, not by the populace and most certainly not by the Watch. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, well, on that note, I’d like to offer you the rank of sergeant. What do you think about that?”

  Hektor blinked. “Are you postin’ my name, sir?”

  The captain frowned impatiently. “No, I’m not, not yet.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know what the Watch expects, what the entire street expects for that matter,” he said peevishly. “but I’m not running a popularity contest, and I don’t believe seniority should have the final say in something this important. Aiden’s a hothead. Last year’s events proved that.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Hektor said, a spark of anger causing him to scowl. “But nothin’ of last year was proven at all.”

  “Yes, I’m fully aware of the inquiry’s report, Watchman,” the captain answered stiffly. “And why it read as it did. But there’s no honor in covering up unlawful behavior.

  “Now I understand that this might put you in an awkward position,” he continued before Hektor could voice another protest. “But I expect you to do what’s right by Haven and not just what’s comfortable for your family. I want your answer by the end of the dayshift.”

  Hektor snapped to a sarcastic attention. “Sir.”

  “And I will be posting your younger brother Padreic’s name for watchhouse runner,” the captain continued before Hektor could turn for the door. “He seems a diligent and hard-working lad who merits the position. I trust he’ll do his best to bring honor to the Watch.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I am not out to get the Danns, Watchman, whatever the rank and file may think.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Yes, well, that will be all.”

  “Sir.”

  Hektor left the captain’s office with all eyes upon him. Shifting his expression to one similar to Aiden’s, he glared at them until they all found something else to do, then signaled curtly to Kiel and headed out the door. But it didn’t matter. The rumor mill had already begun to turn; the speculations would be all over the street by noon.

  He fretted over what the captain had said—and what Aiden would say—for the rest of the day. Around him, the street seemed to be holding its breath, as if waiting for an approaching storm to break above the city. As his brothers had noted, the people fell silent as he and Kiel approached, then huddled together, talking quietly after they’d passed. As the afternoon sun touched the tops of the western roof-tops, the two watchmen turned their steps back toward Iron Street with visible relief and walked right into a smash and grab.

  Two youths were squeezing past an elderly man in a heavy muffling cloak, arms overladen with packages. Just as they came alongside him, one of the youths seemed to stumble, falling against the old man, while the other threw out a hand with an exclamation of alarm to steady him. As one of the smaller packages disappeared into the first youth’s open shirt, Kiel gave a shout. The youth immediately took off running, and Hektor leaped after him.

  The youth pelted down the street, but Hektor was one of the fastest runners in the Watch, and he gained on him quickly. Usually more than happy to partake in the hue and cry, the people made room for them, shouting encouragement. One single dive was all it took, and Hektor brought the youth down hard, knocking the breath out of him as they hit the cobblestones.

  The crowd cheered. For a moment Hektor smiled; then as someone shouted “Iron Street!” his expression dropped to a frown once again.

  By the time he returned, dragging the youth by the collar, Kiel had taken his accomplice into custody, and Aiden had arrived on the scene, trying to placate the old man, who was upbraiding him in an accent that showed plainly that he was not from the Iron Street area. A crowd of people had already begun to gather in response to the sound of indignant scolding.

  “I am not inebriated, Corporal,” the old man now snapped, weaving slightly.

  “No, sir, of course not, sir,” Aiden answered with exaggerated politeness, casting a jaundiced eye across the crowd as this statement provoked an murmur of laughter.

  “And I do not require a Healer,” the old man continued. “I’m right as rain.”

  “Yes, sir.” Aiden eyed the blood trickling down from an abrasion just visible above the old man’s hairline. “Pardon the liberty, sir, but rain isn’t always right.”

  The old man drew himself up to glare at him through a pair of rheumy blue eyes. “And when isn’t it right, pray tell?” he demanded.

  “When there’s too much of it, sir.” Aiden offered him his handkerchief with a neutral expression, and the old man took it in grumbling acceptance, pressing it against his forehead with an involuntary hiss of pain.

  “At least let one of us see you home, sir,” Aiden offered. “The night comes on fast this time of year, and you’ll want to be indoors afore the sun goes down.”

  His unspoken words hung between them, but the old man cast him a shrewd glance. “You mean you want me off your streets and safely home before the end of your shift, Corporal,” he accused.

  “As you say, sir.” Aiden gestured at Hektor. “Watchman, see the gentleman home,” he ordered, piling the old man’s parcels into his younger brother’s arms until he could barely see over them.

  As the crowd began to laugh, Hektor sighed. “Yes, Corporal.”

  Leaning heavily on his shoulder, the old man directed them toward an area much more affluent than the ones Hektor was used to. It was slow going, but eventually they fetched up before a sturdy, well-maintained house with a small front garden planted with flowers. The old man fished a key from his voluminous cloak and, opening the door, gestured Hektor inside.

  “Just set the parcels on the table there by the largest of the cages.”

  Hektor did as directed, then stared about in undisguised awe. The front room was huge, more than twice the size of his own, and was crowded with large, ornate birdcages housing tiny yellow and brown birds that filled the room with music. Floor-to-ceiling book-cases marched along every wall, with complex bits of wood and metal and strange objects he couldn’t possibly identify competing with books, scrolls, and maps on every surface. A number of open doors hinted at more overstuffed rooms beyond.

  The old man threw his cloak in the general direction of a chair stacked high with books. “A lifetime’s collection,” he said in response to Hektor’s expression. “I’m a bit of a pack rat, I’m afraid. Comes with the territory. I’m an Artificer ... was an Artificer ... am a retired Artificer. The sight goes with age,” he added, poking a finger dangerously close to one eye. “Couldn’t see a drawing now to save myself. But life goes on, doesn’t it?”

  “Uh, yes, sir?”

  The old man gave an amused snort. “You’re polite to say so,” he acknowledged. “Of course, I don’t expect you to understand that just yet, do I? No, later, when you’re older. That’s the thing abo
ut wisdom, it comes with age. Or at least it should. Now ...” He began rummaging in a huge golden oak desk piled with a similar number of strange items and papers. “You must let me give you something for your trouble.”

  Hektor drew himself up. “No, thank you, sir.”

  The old man chuckled. “Too proud to accept money like a porter, Watchman?”

  Hektor blushed. He made to shake his head, but something in the old man’s friendly tone made him shrug instead. “S’pose I am, sir,” he admitted.

  “An honest answer. No money, then, but, now where is it, where is it, ah yes, this might do, I think.” He plucked a small metal disc from a pile of similar objects. “Perhaps a bit premature, but I believe in the power of optimism. All Artificers do, or they wouldn’t attempt half the projects they take on.” He held it out. “You must accept it. It’s just a trifle after all, and it will keep me from insisting.”

  Hektor took it reluctantly, stuffing it into his pouch without looking at it.

  “And now tea is in order, I should think,” the old man continued.

  Hektor shook his head. “I really can’t, sir,” he said, inching towards the door. “An’ pardon the liberty, but you outta get a Healer to look at that cut on your forehead.”

  “What?” The old man dabbed at his head with a grimace. “Oh, yes, I shall, of course. And it just so happens that I have a Healer friend coming to take an early supper with me. I’m sure he’ll see to it then, but in the meantime, you must stay for a cup of tea.”

  As Hektor opened his mouth to make a second protest, the old man waved a dismissive hand at him. “I insist. Besides,” he added with a mischievous smile. “I might suffer a terrible collapse as a result of my injury. You might say that it’s your duty to remain until my friend arrives. Sit.” Pointing at a chair covered in scrolls, he bustled into the kitchen, and with a sigh, Hektor did as he was told.

  The room was stuffy and warm, the tea expensive and strong. A plate of fancy cakes sat on a silver tray by the teapot, and Hektor allowed himself to be prodded into eating several. The old man was interesting company, telling a short tale or two of his own life and inviting his guest to do the same. The sun had passed the window, casting the room into darkness before Hektor remembered his errands with a guilty start. He glanced surreptitiously at the door, but the old man caught the movement at once.