Take a Thief (34 page)

"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 233

Take a Thief

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 to 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 234

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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 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.

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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."

Cymry whickered; it sounded like a chuckle.
:I reckon you saw more than
that. Go on, come back and meet me here once you've stuffed yourself.:
Skif got up, and now that he was moving again, he felt every single bruise and strain from yesterday's ride.

Was it only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime ago….

As he got up, he actually staggered a little with stiffness. Cymry moved quickly to give him a shoulder to catch himself on, and after he'd steadied himself, he gave her a self-conscious little kiss on her forehead.

:Go on,:
she said playfully, giving him a shove with her nose.
:Just don't
eat until you're sick.:

You didn't become a successful thief without learning the layout of a place on the first time through it. Nevertheless, Skif couldn't help but feeling a little self-conscious as he made his way across the grass, overshadowed by the silent building. And he couldn't help looking for those who might be looking for
him.
But there were no watchers; Cymry had been right. And when he left the heat of the outdoors for the cool of the great kitchen, he discovered it just as deserted as it had been when Teren brought him.

He opened the pantry doors and stood amid the plenitude, gazing at the laden shelves and full of indecision. Bacon or ham? White bread, or brown? It was too hot to eat anything cooked-up fresh, besides being far too much trouble, but there was an abundance of good things that could be eaten cold. His mouth watered at the sight of a row of ceramic jars labeled

"Pikld Beets," but the discovery of a keg of large sour cucumber pickles made him change his mind about the beets. There were so many things here that he had only tasted once or twice, and so many more he'd seen, but never tasted—

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But although Cymry had warned him playfully about eating himself sick, he was mindful of that very consideration. Too many times he'd seen people in his own streets do just that, when encountering unexpected abundance. After all, none of this was going to disappear tomorrow, or even later tonight (unless he ate it) and he wasn't going to have his access to it removed, either.

When this Cook gets back t'work—
Oh, there was a thought! If there was so much here ready for snacking, what wonderful things must the Cook prepare every day? Visions of the kinds of things he'd seen in the best inns passed through his mind— minced-meat pasties, stews with thick, rich gravy, egg pie and oh, the sweets….

Eventually he made his selections, and put a plate together. He ate neatly and with great enjoyment, savoring every bite, finishing with a tart apple and a piece of sharp cheese. Then, as he had when he had eaten earlier with Teren, he cleaned up after himself and put everything away.

A glance through the windows above the great sink as he was washing up showed him that the sky had gone to red as the sun set. There would be plenty of time to spend with Cymry, and at that moment, there was nothing in the world that he would rather have been doing.

Back up and out he went, under a sky filled with red-edged, purple clouds, passing trees just beginning to whisper in an evening breeze, through the quietude that seemed so strange to him after the constant noise of the city proper. Cymry waited for him where he had last seen her, watching the sun set and turn the river to a flat ribbon of fire.

He put an arm over her shoulder, and they watched it together. How many times had he watched the sun rise or set above the roofs of the city? Too many to count, certainly, but he'd never had as much time as he would have liked to enjoy the sight, even when it was a truly glorious one like tonight.

Come to that, there had never been anyone with him who understood that it was a glorious sight until tonight. Bazie would have— but Bazie had 237

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spent most of his time in the cellar room, and there was never the time or leisure for his boys to bring him up for a sunset.

They stood together until the last vestige of rose faded from the clouds, and only then did they realize that they were not alone.

Behind them were another Herald and Companion, who must have come up behind them so quietly that not even Skif's instincts were alerted— and that took some skill.

Skif didn't even know they were there until Cymry reacted, with a sudden glance over her shoulder, a start and a little jump.

Then he looked behind, and saw the strangers.

He turned quickly, sure that they were somewhere they shouldn't have been, but the tall, elderly man standing with one arm around his Companion's shoulders (even as Skif had stood with Cymry) smiled and forestalled any apology.

"I beg your pardon, youngling, for startling you," the man said, his voice surprisingly deep for one as thin as he was. "We often come here to admire the sunset, and didn't see any reason to disturb your enjoyment.

Rolan tells me that you are Skif and Cymry."

The man's uniform was a touch above the ones that Herald Teren and Dean Elcarth had worn; there was a lot of silver embroidery on the white deerskin tunic, and Skif would have been willing to bet anything he had that the trews and shirt this Herald wore were silk.

The Companion was something special as well; he was just a little glossier, just a little taller, and had just a touch more of an indefinable dignity than any of the others Skif had seen thus far did.

:This is the Queen's Own Herald Talamir and Rolan, the Grove-Born,:
Cymry said hastily in his mind, in a tone that told Skif (even though he had no idea what the titles meant) that these two were somehow very, very special, even by the standards of Heralds.

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"Yessir, Herald Talamir," Skif said, with an awkward bob of his head. It was a very odd thing. He had seen any number of highborn, and never felt any reason to respect them. He
did
respect the Heralds he'd met so far—but this man, without doing more than simply stand there, somehow
commanded
respect. But at the same time, there was an aura of what Beel might have called
mortality
and what others might have called
fey
that hung about him.

The Herald's smile widened. "And I see that you and Cymry Mindspeak.

That is excellent, especially in so early a bond." Talamir stepped forward and extended his hand to Skif, and when Skif tentatively offered his own, took it, and shook it firmly but gently. "Welcome, Skif," was all he said, but the words were a true greeting, and not a hollow courtesy.

"Thankee, sir," Skif replied, feeling an unaccountable shyness, a shyness that evidently was shared by Cymry, who kept glancing at the other Companion with mingled awe and admiration. Talamir seemed to expect something more from him, and he groped for something to say. "This's—all kinda new t'me."

"So I'm told." Mild amusement, no more. No sign that Talamir had been told anything of Skif's antecedents. "Well, if you feel overwhelmed, remember that when I first arrived here, I was straight out of a horse-trading family, I'd never spent a night in my life under anything but canvas, and the largest city I ever saw was a quarter of the size of Haven.

My first night in my room was unbearable; I thought I was going to smother, and I kept feeling the walls pressing in on me. Eventually, I took my blankets outside and slept on the lawn. Very few of us are ready for this when we arrive here, and—" he chuckled softly, the merest ghost of a laugh, "—sometimes
here
is even less ready for us. But we adapt, the Trainee to the Collegium and the Collegium to the Trainee. Even if it means pitching a tent in the garden for a Trainee to live in for the first six months."

Skif gaped, totally unable to imagine this elegant gentleman living in a tent, but quickly shut his mouth. "Yessir," he replied, his usually quick wits failing him.

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He had no idea how to end this conversation, but the Herald solved his dilemma for him. "Have a good evening, youngling," Talamir said, and he and his Companion turned and drifted off through the dusk like a pair of spirits, making no sound whatsoever as they moved over the grass. The moon, three-quarters now, had just begun to rise, and its light silvered them with an eldritch glow.

"Is't just me," Skif asked, when he was pretty sure they were out of earshot, "Or are they
spooky?
"

:They're spooky,:
Cymry affirmed, with an all-over shiver of her coat.

:Rolan is Talamir's second Companion. Taver was killed in the Tedrel
Wars, when Talamir and Jadus were trying to rescue the King. They say
that everyone thought Talamir was going to follow Taver and King Sendar
until Rolan came and pulled him back. Ever since then, Talamir's been—

otherworldly. Half his heart and soul are here, and half's in the Havens,
they say.:

Skif shook his head. All this was too deep for him.

:Still!:
Cymry continued, shaking off her mood.
:His mind is all here, and
Talamir's mind is better than four of anyone else's! Would you like to see
Companion's Field?:

"I thought this was Companion's Field," Skif replied confusedly.

She made a chuckling sound.
:This is only the smallest corner of it. Most
of it is across the river. Think you can get on my back without a boost?: