Valdemar Anthology - [Tales of Valdemar 02] - Sun in Glory and Other Tales of Valdemar (25 page)

“Oh, she's sick,” the Healer assured him, exasperation edging her voice. “What could have possessed her to ride courier at her age, at this time of the year? Yes, the package and information she brought from the Healer's Collegium will save lives this winter, but
surely
there had to have been younger Heralds around to deliver it?”

Jors opened his mouth to answer.

Lorrin gave him no chance. “If she hadn't run into your riding sector, she might not have made it this far. She needs rest and I'm keeping her in bed until I think she's had enough of it.”

Jors didn't argue. He wouldn't have minded an actual conversation—Lorrin was young and pretty—but unfortunately, she seemed too determined to run this new House of Healing the way she felt a House of Healing
should
be run to waste time in dalliance with the healthy.

 

“Have you good as new. You see. Good as new. Soft and clean.”

Jors stopped just inside the stable door and stared in astonishment at the young man grooming his Companion. The stubby fingers that held the brush, the bulky body, the round face, angled eyes, and full mouth told the Herald that this unexpected groom was one of those the country people called Moonlings. He wore patched homespun; the pants too large, the shirt too small, both washed out to a grimy gray. His boots had seen at least one other pair of feet.

He'd already groomed the chirras and Isabel's Companion, Calida—the sleeping mare all but glowed in the dim stable light.

:His name is Brock.:
The stallion's mental voice sounded sleepy and sated.
:Can we take him with us?:

Companions were not in the habit of allowing themselves to be groomed by other than Heralds' hands. Jors found it hard to believe that they'd not only allowed Brock's ministrations but were actually reveling in them. He stepped forward and, at the sound of his footfall, Brock turned.

His face broke into a broad smile radiating welcome. Arms spread, he rushed at the Herald and wrapped him in a tight hug. Staring up at Jors, their faces barely inches apart, he joyfully repeated “Brother Herald!” over and over while a large gray dog leaped around them barking.

“Brock . . . I can't breathe . . .”

“Sorry! Sorry.” Releasing him so quickly Jors stumbled and had to grab the edge of a hay rack, Brock shuffled back, still smiling. “Sorry. I brushed.” One short-fingered hand gestured back at the Companions. “Good as new. Soft and clean.”

“You did a very good job.” Jors stepped around the dog, now lying panting on the floor and ran his fingers down Gervis' side. There wasn't a bit of straw, a speck of dust, a hair out of place on either Companion.

:Better than very good,:
Gervis sighed.

Jors smiled and repeated the compliment.
:Did you say thank you, you fuzzy hedonist?:

In answer, the Companion stretched out his neck and gently nuzzled Brock's cheek, receiving a loud, smacking kiss in return.

“Okay. We go now.” Brock bent and picked a ragged, gray sweater out of the straw and wrestled it over his head. “We go
now,
” he repeated, placing both hands in the small of Jors' back and pushing him toward the stable door. “Or we come late and Mister Mayor is mad and yells.”

“Late for . . . ?”

:The petitions.:
Gervis' mental voice sounded more than a little amused and Jors remembered he'd intended to merely look in on the Companions on his way to the town hall.

Heading out into the square, he realized Brock was trotting to keep up, and he shortened his stride. “Does the mayor yell a lot?”

“Yes. A lot.”

“Do you know why?”

Brock sighed deeply, one hand dropping to fondle the ears of the dog walking beside him. ‘Mister Mayor wears the town,” he said very seriously after a moment. “The town swings heavy heavy.”

Okay; that made no sense. Maybe we should try something less complex.
“Is Rock your dog?”

“He's my friend. They were hurting him. I . . . Wait!”

Uncertain of just who had been told to wait, Jors watched Brock and the dog run across to the town well where a pair of women argued over who'd draw their water first. Ignored in the midst of the argument, Brock began to draw water for them. He had no trouble with the winch, but while pouring from bucket to bucket, he splashed the older woman's skirt. Suddenly united, they turned on him. By the time Jors arrived, Brock had filled another bucket in spite of the shouting—although his shoulders were hunched forward and he didn't look happy.

The older woman saw him first, shoved the other, and the shouting stopped.

“Ladies.”

“Herald,” they said in ragged unison.

“Let me give you a hand with that, Brock. You bring the water up, and I'll pour.”

“Pouring is hard,” Brock warned.

“Herald, you don't have to,” one of the women protested. “We never asked this . . .” When Jors turned a bland stare in her direction, she reconsidered her next word. “. . . boy to help.”

“I know.” His tone cut off any further protests and neither woman said anything until all the buckets had been filled, then they thanked him far more than the work he'd done required. He'd turned to go when at the edge of his vision he saw one woman lean forward and pinch Brock on the arm, hissing, “Now that's a
real
Herald.”

“HERALD JORS!”

Across the square, the mayor stood on the steps of the town hall, chain of office glinting in the pale autumn sunlight, both hands urging him to hurry.
Well, he'll just have to wait!
Lips pressed into a thin line, Jors turned back toward the well, had his elbow firmly grabbed, and found himself facing the mayor again.

“Mister Mayor is yelling,” Brock explained, moving Jors across the square.

“Let him. I saw what happened back there. I saw that woman pinch you.”

“Yes.” He turned a satisfied smile toward Jors, never lessening their forward motion. “I made them stop fighting. Heralds do that.”

“Yes, they do.” They'd almost reached the hall and Jors had a strong suspicion that digging his heels in would have had no effect on their forward motion. “You're stronger than you look.”

“Have to be.”

I'll bet,
Jors thought as he caught sight of the mayor's expression.

“Brock! Get your filthy hands off that Herald!”

“Hands are clean.”

“I don't care! He doesn't need you hanging around him!”

“I don't mind.” Jors swept through the door, Brock caught up in his wake, both moving too quickly for the mayor to do anything but fall in behind.

“Heralds work together,” Brock announced proudly. He clapped his hands as heads began to turn. “Be in a good line now. Heralds are here.”

“Heralds?” a male voice jeered from the crowd. “I see only one Herald, Moonling.”

“Heralds!” Brock repeated, throwing his arms around Jors' waist in another hug. “Me and him.”

But he couldn't let the townspeople chase Brock from the hall as they clearly wanted to do and Brock wouldn't leave because it was time for the Heralds to hear petitions, so Jors ended up sitting him at the table and hoping for the best.

He realized his mistake early on. Brock had a loudly expressed opinion on everything, up to and including calling one of the petitioners a big fat liar—which turned out to be true; on all points. Unfortunately, short of having him physically carried out of the hall, Jors could think of no way to get him to leave.

Gervis' mental voice sounded distinctly smug.
:I know.:

It worked. Jors only wished the Companion had thought of it sooner. A Herald's office protected him or her from the repercussions of a judgment—no matter how disgruntled the losing petitioner might be, few would risk the grave penalties attached to attacking a Herald. Brock didn't have that protection.
Good thing he's safely tucked away with Isabel.

 

“No, Brock's not here.” Healer Lorrin continued rolling strips of soft linen. “He left at sunset for the tavern.”

“The tavern?”

“He's there every evening. He fills their wood box and they feed him—him and Rock.”

“He works there?”

Lorrin nodded. “There, and the blacksmith's whenever there's a nervy horse in to be shoed—animals trust him. I tried to have him deliver teas to patients, but if he's carrying something, there's always troublemakers who try to take it from him.”

“I'm surprised.” Jors rubbed his elbow at the memory. “He's quite strong.”

“Is he?” She set the finished roll with the others and picked up a new strip of cloth. “He's bullied all the time, but I've never seen him defend himself. Did you know that poorer mothers have him watch their infants if they have to leave them? I'll tell you something, Herald. When I came here a year ago, I was amazed to discover this town has almost none of those horrible accidents that happen when a baby just starting to creep is left alone and burns to death or drowns—that's because of Brock.”

“Where does he sleep?” This far north, the nights were already cold.

“In various stables when the weather's good. By someone's hearth when it isn't.”

“Has he no family?”

“His parents were old when he was born, old and poor. They died about three yeas ago and left him nothing.”

“Why doesn't someone take him in?”

“He doesn't want to be taken,” the Healer snapped. “He's not a stray cat, and for all he can be childlike, he's not a child. He's a grown man, probably not much younger than you and he has the same right as you do to choose his life.”

“But . . .”

She sighed and her tone softened. “‘There are those who try to make sure he doesn't suffer for those choices, but that's all anyone has a right to do. Besides . . .” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “. . . he tells me that Heralds never stay in one place so no one thinks they like some people more than others.”

Simpler language but pretty much the official reason, Jors allowed. “How long has he believed himself to be a Herald?”

“As long as I've been here. I'm surprised you haven't heard about him from other Heralds. You can't be the first he's latched on to.”

“He wasn't in the reports I read and I . . .” About to say he doubted Brock would come up in casual conversation between Heralds, he frowned at a distinct feeling of unease. “I should go now.”

“There's no need to go to the Waystation tonight, I've plenty of room.” Her smile edged toward invitation. “I doubt anyone will accuse you of favoritism if you stay here.”

“No. Thank you. I need to . . .” The feeling was growing stronger. “. . . um, go.”

He doubted she'd be smiling that way at him again, but personal problems were unimportant next to his growing certainty that something was wrong. Taking the steps two at a time, he hit the ground floor running and headed for the stables.
:Gervis?:

It wasn't in the stables or the corral, but when Jors opened the small door, a pair of huddled figures tumbled inside.

Brock lifted a tear-drenched face up from matted gray fur and wailed, “Heralds don't cry.”

“Says who?” Jors demanded, dropping to one knee.

“People. When I cry.”

“People are wrong. I'm a Herald and I cry.” He stretched out a hand, keeping half his attention on the big dog who watched him warily. Herald's Whites meant nothing to Rock, and he didn't lower his hackles until Gervis whickered a warning of his own. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”

“Heralds don't tattle!”

His various tormentors had probably been telling him that for years. “If someone does something bad, we do.”

“No.”

“Yes. If we can't make it right on our own, we tell someone who can. Bad things should never be hidden. It makes them worse.”

Brock drew in a long shuddering breath and slowly held out his arm. Below the ragged cuff of his sweater was a dark bruise where a large hand had gripped his wrist.

“Is that all?”

“Rock came. The man ran away.”

“Who was it?”

“A bad man.”

No argument there. “Do you know his name?”

“A bad man,” Brock repeated, wiping his nose against the dog's shoulder.

:You catch him and I'll kick him.:
The Companion's mental voice was a near growl.
:Calida says she'll help.:

 

“It's a bad bruise, but it is just a bruise. Healer Lorrin wrapped it in an herb pack and she says he'll be fine. He won't stay, says he's not sick enough, but I can't just let him wander off into the night.”