Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar v(-100

by Mercedes Lackey

  Now, however, raising his eyes from the chunk of amber he'd been staring into while the rest of us glumly guzzled our wine, he said, "Certainly it's magic. Judging from the appearance of the conflagration, someone's conjured a salamander, a being from the Elemental Plane of Fire, to do the job. But I can't find it."

  I scowled. "Old friend. This is not the time to angle for more gold."

  Lady Elthea extended her trembling hand. Her skin was like parchment, her knuckles, swollen with arthritis. "Sorcerer, I beseech you. Some of our fellow citizens died tonight. More could perish tomorrow. If you can help prevent this, don't hold back."

  Jarnac, one of the Blue blades, rose from the trestle table. "I'll take care of it, Lady Elthea," he said. He was a lanky, sandy-haired youth, dressed lavishly but not tastefully in a sapphire- and ruby-studded particolored doublet with intricately carved ivory buttons. At his side hung the latest rage, one of the new smallswords, this one sporting a golden hilt. Smallswords looked elegant, and were adequate for fighting another gentleman similarly equipped. But they were apt to prove too flimsy against a heavier weapon or an armored foe, which was why I was still lugging my broadsword around.

  As might have been inferred from Jarnac's ostentation, he was New Money, with a parvenu's eagerness to parade his wealth and sense of style; unlike most of his cronies in the room, he couldn't claim kinship with one of the Fifty Noble Houses. Not that that mattered to me. My birth was considerably humbler than his.

  He dropped a fat purse on the table. Coin clinked. "Take it, magician," he urged. "And rest assured, there's plenty more where that came from."

  Draydech gazed longingly at the money. I fancy he came close to licking his lips. But at last he shook his head and said, "I can't take it, sir, because I'm not sure I can earn it. Despite Master Selden's slander—" he shot me a reproachful glance, which, given our shared history, failed to inspire any remorse, "—I wasn't trying to inflate my price. Rather, I was attempting to explain that something odd has happened.

  "We all should have seen the salamander. They're not invisible, quite the contrary. Even if its summoner veiled it in a glamour, / should still have spotted it. But I didn't.

  "What's more, I've been sitting here scrying, and I can't pick up its trail. Apparently someone's developed a cunning new type of cloaking spell."

  Sensing that he was telling the truth, I said, "And until you work out how to pierce the charm, you can't banish the spook, or guide us to its master either. Is that about the gist of it?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  I sighed. "What more can you tell us about salamanders?"

  "A sorcerer enlists the aid of an elemental by opening a Gate to its home plane, then bartering for its services. It was probably fairly easy to recruit a salamander to start fires. They love to do it anyway. The trick will be to keep it under control, to make sure it only burns what the summoner wants it to."

  Fire is a threat to any town. In Mornedealth, built all of wood, the menace was all the greater. Remembering how the theater blaze had flowed against the wind, the beginnings of a headache tightening my brow, I wondered how our problem could get any worse. The answer was immediately forthcoming.

  Pivor, Lady Elthea's grandnephew and closest living kin, sprang up from his bench. He did belong to the Fifty, and no mistaking it. He had the kind of exquisite features and supercilious carriage that only generations of controlled inbreeding can produce. "Enough of this prattle," he said. "The mage has already admitted he can't aid us, so we'll have to help ourselves. We know who to blame for our troubles: the Greens." The company murmured agreement. They'd all seen the unsigned threat, written in emerald ink, that someone had tacked to Lady Elthea's door the night before the first fire. "So I say we strike back at them at once."

  "No," Lady Elthea said. "I don't want—"

  Pivor ignored her. "A lot of them drink at The Honeycomb. We can lie in wait in the alley that runs—"

  "That's a bad idea," I said. "My gut tells me that not all the Greens are involved in this. We need to identify the ones who are. Indiscriminate slaughter would only compound our difficulties."

  "If we kill enough of them, the ones who remain will be afraid to send the spirit out again."

  "No, they won't," I said. "They'll merely seek to butcher you in turn."

  Pivor's lip curled "I heard that when you founded your fencing academy, you swore your days as a hire-sword were over."

  "You heard correctly," I said. "Twenty-five years of soldiering was enough. Unfortunately, I have a penchant for losing horses and needy friends. When the combination depletes my coffers, I accept commissions of a certain sort. Pray tell, why are we discussing this?"

  "I was just conjecturing that you gave up the mercenary life because you've turned coward. For, truly, you seem afraid to fight."

  No doubt he said it to shame me into supporting his strategy. But of course there was only one proper response to such an insult, and that wasn't it. Simply because Jarnac was near me, I turned to him. "Sir. Would you do me the honor of acting as my second?"

  One of Pivor's friends said, "That figures. One base-born fellow looks to the other."

  Jarnac colored. "It would be better if you asked someone else, Master Selden, because I agree with Pivor. Not in his assessment of your character," he added hastily, "but about what's best to do. We shouldn't waste time trying to ferret out one man from the mass of our foes. We should wage war on them all."

  Balm, one of my more promising students, said, "I'll stand for you, Master Selden."

  "Thank you," I said. I gave Pivor my best killer's glare. "Then perhaps we can arrange this straightaway."

  I'll give him credit, I couldn't stare bun down, but he grew pale, no doubt in belated remembrance of my reputation. "Verrano, will you act for me?" he stammered.

  "Stop this!" Lady Elthea said. "Didn't you all come here for the same purpose? To succor a poor old woman who needs your help desperately? Then I beg you, please, don't fight among yourselves!"

  This time, Pivor chose to heed her. "You're right, of course. Moreover, this is your affair, and if you think this man should be in charge, so be it." He bowed to me. "Master Selden, for my grandaunt's sake, I apologize."

  I bowed back. "And for her sake, I accept."

  "If we aren't going to massacre the Greens, what are we going to do?" Draydech asked.

  "The gentlemen of the Blues will keep guarding my lady's properties," I said. "Perhaps one of them will spot our human foe, lurking about the scene. You'll try to devise a magic that will locate the salamander. I'll nose around and see what I can uncover through more mundane channels. And by working together, we'll put an end to this outrage." I wished I were as confident as I was trying to sound.

  I contrived to approach the house from the rear, then hid behind the stable. After a while, a maid trudged out the back door and started tossing feed to the chickens. The birds were plump and lively; she, thin and lethargic. Their feathers shone white in the morning sunlight, while her gown was drab and threadbare. In short, they looked better cared for than she was.

  Which was more or less what I'd expected. Her employer was famous for the sumptuous banquets he gave for his fellow Greens, but, provided one talked to the poor as well as the prosperous, equally notorious for his miserly treatment of his servants.

  I checked the windows of the four-story dwelling, making sure no one was peering out, then stepped from concealment. "Hello," I said.

  The girl jumped. "Who are you?"

  "A friend." I showed her the trade-silver in my hand. "With a proposition."

  She looked yearningly at the money, reminding me fleetingly of Draydech. But then she scowled and said, "I'm not that kind."

  "You mistake me," I said. "I just want to ask you some questions, about things you may have noticed or overheard. Though I must admit, there's a chance that something you say could embarrass your master. So I'll understand if you decline."

  She glanced over her shoulder at the
house, then snatched the coin. "What do you want to know?"

  The racket in The Honeycomb was deafening. The tavern was packed, most of the patrons were roaring drunk, and two lunatics were playing bagpipes. We lads at the corner table had to bellow with the rest to make ourselves heard.

  "And that was that," said one of my companions, a burly hire-sword with a forked beard, a broken nose, and a Green favor pinned to the sheepskin collar of his jacket. "When they saw that, armed only with a soup ladle, I'd killed eight of their band in half as many seconds, the rest of the bastards turned tail."

  "Amazing," I said. I was trying to sound admiring, and truly, I was impressed by his powers of invention. I stroked my false whiskers the way I always do when I wear them, to make sure they aren't failing off. "Of course, if what we hear in Valdemar is true, it's no wonder you men of Mornedealth are master warriors. Folk say you keep in constant practice fighting one another. For instance, you Greens are at odds with the Silvers, isn't that so?"

  "The Blues," someone corrected.

  "Pardon me, the Blues. What's that all about, anyway? And who's winning?"

  Smiling slyly, the fellow with the broken nose said, "I'm afraid that's a very long story. And my throat's already parched."

  Taking the hint, I waved for the barkeep to bring another jug.

  Lithe and lightning-quick, Marissa flowed through the gloomy practice hall, a dagger flashing in either hand and her short black hair flying about her head. When she finished the exercise, I said, "Your high guard is a hair too high."

  "Says you," she replied. If she'd kept to her usual schedule, she'd been practicing hard for a candlemark, but she wasn't even slightly winded. "Good evening, Sel-den. Stop by to sign up for some lessons?"

  "Who could afford your rates?" I said, sauntering from the doorway into the hall. "Well, perhaps I could if I could stay away from the hippodrome, but that's by the by. I need information about the Greens."

  A Child's Adventures

  by Janni Lee Simner

  Janni Lee Simner grew up in New York and has been making her way west ever since. She spent nearly a decade in the Midwest, where the recent floods formed some of the background for this story; currently she lives hi the much drier Arizona desert. She's sold stories to nearly two dozen anthologies and magazines, including Realms of Fantasy and Sisters in Fantasy 2. Her first three books, Ghost Horse, The Haunted Trail, and Ghost Vision, have been published by Scholastic.

  When the Companion first appeared in the marketplace, Inya hoped it had come for one of the grandchildren. Such a thing wasn't unheard of, even in a village as small as River's Bend. Companions were said not to care about rank, or about where people were born.

  The people milling around the square froze at the sound of those bridle bells, at the sight of the graceful white creature, too perfect to be a horse, trailing silver and sky-blue trappings. The Companion had no rider, and everyone knew what that meant. She had come searching, maybe for one of them.

  Lara fidgeted at Inya's side, and Inya squeezed the girl's hand. Mariel stood beside them, large-eyed and still. Lara was too young, but Mariel, just sliding into the awkward lankiness between childhood and adulthood, was not. Companions came for children Mariel's age all the time. Anyone who spent an evening listening to a tavern minstrel knew that.

  The Companion tossed her head, mane falling down her back like soft winter snow, sapphire eyes scanning the crowd. Then she started forward, bells jingling, steps light and quick. Inya heard Mariel catch her breath. After all, she'd heard the minstrels, too.

  But maybe, just this once, the stories would turn true. The Companion stepped toward them, until Inya saw her breath, frosty in the late autumn air. Another step, and she would be within reach. Another step—

  A wet, silky muzzle nudged Inya's chest She looked down, startled. The Companion looked back at her, through eyes bright and very deep. Inya felt herself falling, drowning in that endless blue. At the bottom waited friendship, and welcoming, and a life without loneliness. The world tilted crazily around her, but for a long moment she didn't care.

  The moment ended. Inya pulled herself away, flinging the Companion's reins to the ground. She hadn't even realized she was holding them. The ground steadied beneath her; the world came back into focus.

  The Companion kept staring at her. Something brushed Inya's mind, soft as a feather. . I Choose you:, a voice whispered. :After all my searching, I Choose you:.

  As a child, Inya had dreamed about hearing that voice. But that was a long time ago. She didn't have tune, now, for a child's adventures. She had a farm to keep up. She had grandchildren to raise. And someone had to look after the girls' father, too. The Companion had made a mistake. Inya couldn't run off, not now.

  "Go away," Inya whispered. She twisted a gray strand of hair between her fingers. "I'm too old. You're too late. Go away."

  The Companion shook her head. :You:.

  "Take one of the children. They're who you're looking for, not me."

  The Companion snorted, a surprisingly horselike sound. She knelt beside Inya, inviting her to mount.

  "No!" Inya turned from the Companion's sapphire eyes. Her foot slipped on a loose stone, and pain shot through her knee, so sharp she caught her breath. She stood still for several minutes, waiting for the pain to fade.

  Even if she could leave her home and her family, she couldn't follow the Companion. Who ever heard of a Herald with bad knees, with joints that ached whenever it rained?

  She felt warm breath on her neck. The muscles down her back tensed. "Go away. You've made a mistake."

  "I wish mistakes like that would happen to me."

  Inya turned to see Mariel standing beside her, the bag with their purchases swinging from one shoulder. The girl's face had a twisted, angry look. :You should have come for Mariel:, Inya thought again. She sighed, taking Mariel's hand. She had to get home, to start on dinner, to clean the house. Whatever dreams she'd had as a child, she didn't have time, now, to argue with Companions.

  Lara came up at Inya's other side, and Inya took her hand, too. People lingered in the square, staring. Inya ignored them. She started past the jumble of stalls and vendors, toward home.

  Lara twisted around and looked over her shoulder. "She's following us." The girl giggled, as if the idea were terribly funny.

  Mariel dropped Inya's hand, turning to look for herself. "You have to stop," she said. "You can't just leave her there." Mariel's voice was fierce. "You can't."

  "It's not your place to tell me what I can or can't do," Inya said sharply. "Now come along."

  She kept walking. Mariel followed, but she wouldn't take Inya's hand again.

  All the way home, Inya didn't turn around. Even though she heard the Companion's steps, light as snowfall, behind her.

  By the time they got home, an icy rain was falling, turning the dirt road to mud. Inya shivered, dropping Lara's hand to pull her cloak close around her shoulders. Over the steady patter of the rain, Inya no longer heard the Companion's hoofs. Maybe she had finally gone away.

  Lara started to run, and Inya, unable to keep up, let her. Mariel followed her sister, the two of them racing for the house.

  Inya skirted the edge of the fields, where the girls' father was working. Jory nodded as she walked past. He was splattered with mud, brown curls plastered to his face. Beside him a dappled brown horse was hooked to the plow, deep in mud itself.

  Beyond their land, through the trees, Inya saw the dark band of the river. Even from where she stood, she could tell the water was rising. Tongues of water lapped at the trees.

  Inya kept walking, past a battered barn and on to the house. She started a fire in the kitchen hearth, and made the girls change into dry clothes.

  Mariel avoided Inya's eyes. She wouldn't talk to her, and she ran back outside as soon as she'd changed, muttering something about helping her father. Inya sighed.

  She started on dinner, Lara by her side, trying to help but mostly just getting flour i
n her face and short curls. The fire quickly took the chill from the room, and the smell of simmering soup made the cold outside feel even farther away. Inya kneaded the smooth, hard dough beneath her fingers, trying to forget the Companion's bottomless eyes, trying to forget the silky whisper in her head.

  Jory and Mariel came in just after dark. They ate in silence. Jory wolfed down his food, face tired and tight. Mariel didn't eat at all, just stared at Inya with an unreadable expression. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the gaps around the door. One of the hinges was wearing loose. Inya needed to fix it before winter.

  Jory looked up. "I spoke to old Caron today." Jory's tangled curls fell into his face. Lara looked a lot like him. Mariel was the one who looked like their mother— Inya's daughter. She couldn't believe Anara had been gone almost a year.

  Inya fixed her gaze on Jory. "What'd Caron say?"

  "He offered me half again what he'd offered before—more than this farm's ever going to make on its own." Jory buttered a thick slice of bread. "I said I'd think about it."

  Inya stiffened. "It's not your decision to make." The farm had been in her family for generations, since before River's Bend was more than a few scattered houses, before the village even had a name.

  "Well, maybe you should think about it, too," Jory said.

  They'd had this discussion before. Caron had first approached Jory nearly two years ago. The farm, once a candlemark's walk from the next nearest house, was now close to the village. The merchant wanted to build a tavern there, and maybe a couple of shops.

  At first Jory had refused, just as Inya expected him to. Then Anara had died, giving birth to a child who died a few hours after her. After that, Jory took Caron more seriously. "My heart isn't in this place anymore," he'd told Inya once.

  Jory's family had moved to River's Bend when he was a child. He didn't know what it was like to be in a place for hundreds of years, to stay with it through good times and bad.