Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (39 page)

“Well, yeah.”

Aiden stared out past the gates, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes you get boxed in by what people think,” he said. “So boxed in you can’t hardly breathe. It starts makin’ your choices for you. I wanted to do justice by Charlie, but not like that. I wanted to find the folk that sowed those nails and bring ’em in, but the street wanted revenge, an’ they wanted it fast or they’d get it themselves. Da knew that. That’s why he went. But he wasn’t thinkin’ straight neither. He was drunk an’ angry, an’ he jumped the first man he saw on Candler’s Row. If I hadn’t followed him, he mighta killed ’im.”

“So you covered it up an’ took the blame? Why?”

“Made more sense. Da was a respected member of the Watch, an’ I’ve been the family troublemaker since I was a little. Like I said, you get boxed in.”

“You coulda told folk the truth.”

“No one wanted to hear it, Hek. Just like now.” Aiden turned a suddenly intense look on his brother’s face. “You figure the fire was an accident?”

“The Guard said it was.”

“But do you figure it was?”

Hektor stared out at the blackened field. “I dunno. I guess not, probably,” he admitted.

“An’ if you figure not, what do you expect the street to figure? They figure it was set deliberate. An’ they want the score settled, an’ they want it settled by me, ’cause that’s what I do for ’em.”

“But the Candler’s Row folk ain’t stupid,” Hektor protested. “They gotta know it too, an’ they’ve gotta be waitin’ for you to make your move.”

“Right. But the longer I don’t, the more likely it is that Linton or someone else is gonna. Or worse,” he added, “someone from Candler’s Row’s gonna figure the best way to belay our strike is to make their own.”

“So what do we do?”

Aiden shrugged. “Folk expected Da to lead with his fists. They expect me to do the same. But they don’t expect you to, an’ that’s a good thing. It leaves you free to make your own choices. Maybe you can sort somethin’ out. You’re smart.”

“The captain said I had an even temper,” Hektor noted sarcastically.

“That’s just compared to mine. You’re a compromise, Hek. The captain don’t want any Dann promoted, but the Watch and the street does. He didn’t just post your name though, did he?”

“No, he asked me if I would take it first.”

“ ’Cause he don’t wanna to look like a fool if you say no. He wants things to look smooth, even if they ain’t.”

Hektor rubbed his face. “It’s all too complicated,” he complained.

“Then make it simple. Do what’s right by the family. Take the promotion. We need the money.”

“But what do we do about Iron Street and Candler’s Row? Do we ask a Herald to mediate or somethin’?”

Aiden snorted. “Mediate with who? They’re all shopkeepers and tradesmen by day. The Guard said it was an accident. That shoulda been the end of it, but it wasn’t, ’cause they’re all vigilantes by night. The Heralds can mediate all they like, but it won’t change folk, ’cause they don’t wanna be changed.”

“Then we have to make ’em change,” Hektor argued. “An we gotta start by provin’ the fire was an accident.”

“How?”

Hektor straightened. “By askin’ someone who knows about this kinda thing,” he said. “Someone they respect. We ask an Artificer.”

 

“And this is where the fire started?”

Standing in the charred ruins of the market’s one permanent forge, Daedrus turned an expectant look on Hektor.

“Yes, sir. There’s been a lot of rebuild around the perimeter, but not here in the middle. No one’s wanted to go near it as yet, I ’spect. The Fair Master died inside.”

“I see, yes, very interesting, very interesting indeed.”

The retired Artificer had been puttering about the iron market for over an hour, muttering to himself and drawing an ever-growing crowd of onlookers beyond the gates. “I think I should like to bring in a few of my colleagues as consultants if you don’t mind,” he said. “If you could send someone to the Compass Rose Tavern and have them bring back, oh ...” he waved a hand absently. “... whoever happens to be there.”

“Yes, sir. Paddy?” Hektor jumped as Padreic appeared at his elbow immediately. “You know where the Compass Rose is?” When the boy nodded vigorously, he gestured. “Off you go then on your first assignment.” As his brother took off at a dead run, Hektor turned back to the old man. “Was there anything else, sir?”

Tugging at the plaster bandage on his forehead, Daedrus nodded. “Well, it would help me to come to a more accurate conclusion if I could consult with someone knowledgeable in the circumstances under which this area would be made use of. Do you know of anyone like that?”

“Sir?”

“A smith, Watchman, who is familiar with the forge.”

“Oh.” Scanning the crowd, Hektor spotted a familiar face. “Yes sir, I do.”

 

It only took Linton a moment to understand what Daedrus required. Tipping his cap back, he scratched his head thoughtfully. “This be the market forge,” he explained. “The Fair Master’s in charge of it, though he don’t usually work it hisself. We all work it through the fair to cast a horseshoe or make somethin’ small as a customer might want.”

“And the Fair Master sets the forge schedule?” Daedrus asked. “He sees to it that every smith who needs it gets a chance to make use of it?”

“Every local smith,” Linton corrected. “Only Haven smiths can use the market forge. That’s tradition. If a smith from outside wanted somethin’, he’d have to ask one of us for it.” He snorted. “An’ good luck to ’im.

“My cousin Bri was Fair Master for years,” he continued. “Did a good job he did, too, keepin’ everything movin’ along smoothly. There weren’t never too much waitin’.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, with him gone, I reckon I’m Fair Master now.”

Daedrus nodded. “And so he, your cousin Bri, would know everyone who made use of the forge. As you will next year?”

“Yep.”

“So it would be very unusual to have a stranger lurking about unescorted?”

Linton snorted. “Wouldn’t happen at all. We keep an eye out; we all do.”

“I see. Ah, here come my colleagues.”

Daedrus turned as more than two dozen Artificers and students descended on the iron market. He’d set Hektor and Aiden to checker off the entire field with a ball of twine pulled from his voluminous cloak, and now he sent each of his consultants off to an individual square to take measurements and make notes. As the Artificers spread out, he returned his attention to Linton.

 

By late afternoon the Artificers had finished their investigation and were now clustered about the ruined forge, comparing their findings. Several other smiths had been drawn into the conversation, and, as the sun sent long fingers of shadow across the field, Hektor could hear their voices rising and falling as they argued over the events leading up to the fire. But one thing they all agreed on was that no one except a local smith was ever allowed near the market forge. After a particularly heated piece of debate, he heard Linton’s voice rise above the rest.

“ ’Course any fool can see it started by accident, right here. Sparks is what done it, sparks an’ wind. It’s happened before more’n two decades back; Bri told me hisself. Nearly sent the whole fair up that time.”

Shaking his head, Hektor turned to find Captain Torell standing beside him. He started.

“Sir.”

“It seems the street is close to its verdict,” the captain said dryly.

“Yes, sir.” Hektor shrugged. “Folk here don’t take too kindly to bein’ told what’s what.” He glanced over to where Linton was now jabbing another smith in the chest to emphasize his point. “They’d rather do the tellin’.”

“So I see. And I imagine the people of Candler’s Row are much the same.”

“I ’spect so, sir.”

“Do you have a plan that will take the wind out of their sails as well?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind, one crisis at a time.” The captain now turned as Daedrus called out to them.

 

“An accident,” the old man said once they’d joined the crowd of smiths and Artificers. “Tragic, very tragic, but avoidable in the future, I think. Yes, very much so. We have some ideas for the rebuild that will prove quite advantageous.”

Turning, he pulled a small metal disc from the depths of his cloak. “Does anyone have a ... oh, thank you.” He accepted one of the dozen small hammers that were immediately held out to him and, reaching up, affixed the disc to the forge with two tiny nails.

“Artificer’s seal,” he said in answer to Hektor’s questioning expression. “Usually we place them after the building is complete, but as this project was in fact an investigation, not a construction, I think it’s neither unreasonable nor premature to place it now, hm?”

A murmur of assent from the Artificers made him smile. “Good. Now, Fair Master Linton, do come by some time this week, won’t you? I’m eager to get started on our plans. Do you have my address?”

Linton chuckled. “I do, sir. I cast your nails.”

“Do you really? Well, they’re very fine work. What, hm?” He turned as the captain now cleared his throat.

“It’s growing dark, Daedrus. Time to lock up the field.”

“What? Oh yes, of course.” The old man waved at the gathered smiths and Artificers who began to leave the iron market still deep in conversation. “And will the young watchman be escorting me home again?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

The captain nodded formally. “Sergeant Dann will be only too happy to oblige you, after which he’s to report back to the watchhouse. Sergeant?”

Hektor looked up from the small metal disc he’d pulled from his pouch with a confused expression. “Sir?”

“Escort the Artificer home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be at the White Lily tomorrow night, Daedrus?” the Captain asked.

The old man beamed. “I wouldn’t miss it, Travin.”

“Very good. Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

Hektor glanced back at the metal disc in his hand, staring at the colorful Artificer’s seal embossed over Haven’s coat of arms, then up as Daedrus began to chuckle.

“Not so premature, as it happens,” the old man said with a smile. “Now, if you will be so kind.” He gestured towards the gates. “I have drawings to begin, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

“Of course, sir.” Tucking the disc back into his pouch, Sergeant Hektor Dann of the Haven City Watch escorted Artificer Daedrus from the iron market.

Widdershins

Egil was as ordinary as a Herald could be. He was no hero or villain or Herald-Mage. In the Collegium he was solidly in the middle of every class. When he rode out on his internship, he did well enough, but nothing that he did was especially memorable.

Other people had dreams of greatness. Egil dreamed of peace and quiet, and time to read or write or simply sit and think.

Egil’s Companion was named Cynara. Like Egil, she professed no grand ambitions. She did love to dance when she had the chance, and Egil was happy to indulge her. It was the one thing at which he was truly distinguished, and as he said, it was mostly a matter of not getting in Cynara’s way.

Once Egil was past his internship, he was happy not to travel any longer. He settled in at the Collegium, teaching logic and history to the recruits and taking on whatever other tasks seemed most in need of doing. If there was anything that no one else had the time or inclination to do, Egil did it. He never complained, and he always got it done.

That, like dancing with his Companion, was a talent he had, but neither he nor anyone else thought overly much of it. “Not everyone can be a hero,” he liked to say. “Someone has to keep everything in order while the heroes are off saving the world.”

When the Mage Storms began, this was truer than usual. While the world tried to shake itself to pieces, Egil and Cynara helped to hold the Collegium together. It was thanks in part to them that after the Storms ended, there was still a Collegium in Valdemar and a place for Heralds and Companions to enjoy a well-deserved rest.

Now the world was safe, more or less, and for a while, Egil was content to disappear into his office and classroom. Most mornings as soon as it was light he went with Cynara to one of the riding arenas and danced. Sometimes people came to watch, but mostly the two of them had the oval of raked sand to themselves. It was their private time, a sort of meditation for them both.

One morning after an especially satisfying dance, Egil came back to his office to find a summons from the Queen.

He had met her, of course. All the Heralds had. She was one of them, after all.

He doubted she remembered him, and he had no particular desire to be remembered. The summons made no sense to him, unless he had done something wrong without knowing it; more likely this was a mistake and she had meant to summon someone else. The Herald Elgin, maybe. Or the Trainee who shared Egil’s own name.

Yes, that was probably it. He dressed carefully in any case, though he decided against formal Whites; if this had been a ceremonial occasion, the summons would have said so. It was more an invitation, really, bidding Herald Egil attend the Queen in her office. He had sent more than a few of those himself to students in need of discipline or extra tutoring.

Neat, clean, and as ready as he could be, he presented himself at the door to the Queen’s office.