Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (29 page)

“Are you the young man who wrote that report about Appleby?”

Heralds didn’t tend to grow old. Even in times of peace, they lived lives that lowered the odds of them dying in bed to slightly less than negligible. It seemed that the elderly Herald who’d appeared at Jors’ side was the exception to prove the rule. His shoulders were hunched forward, his eyes were red rimmed and moist, he stood with his weight supported on a polished cane, and above the scarf he wore in spite of the heat of a sunny, late spring day, age had pleated his face into a hundred wrinkles.

“Are you deaf, boy? I said, are you the young man who wrote that report about Appleby! Are you Herald Jors?”

Age had roughened his voice but not lessened his volume.

People were beginning to gather, and Jors could see a trio of Companions heading in across the field to see what all the noise was about. “I am. I’m Jors.”

“Who taught you to write reports? Never mind. You leave too much out. That report about Appleby? All apples.”

“That’s pretty much all there is in Appleby.”

“What? There’s no people? No dogs? No cats? No buildings? No apple trees for pity’s sake?”

“Of course there are and ...”

“Of course there are,” the elderly Herald snorted. “Why didn’t you mention them, then, eh? You mentioned the apples, why not the apple trees?”

Jors smiled and spread his hands. “They didn’t do much.”

The rheumy eyes narrowed. “Don’t get smart with me, boy. I’ve had my Whites longer than your father’s been alive, maybe even your father’s father, and there has been a distinct disintegration, no, dispersing, no,
erosion
of writing ability over the last few years.” He shook a swollen finger at Jors—or perhaps he merely pointed and it shook on its own, it was hard to tell. “Reports used to say things. Give details. Tell stories. They used to bring Valdemar to life. Now it’s all apples!”

Since he seemed to be waiting for Jors to respond, the younger man ventured a reasonably sincere “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do it right the next time. Honestly,” he muttered, turning and making his way toward the stables. “What are they teaching them when they’re in their Grays?”

Jors watched him go, watched him correcting a lateral drift every six steps or so, and wondered if he should have offered his arm.

“I see you’ve met Herald Tamis.”

He turned to see Erica, one of his yearmates, leaning on the fence, one arm stretched out over the top rail so she could scratch up under Raya, her Companion’s mane. “He doesn’t like the way I write reports.”

“As near as I can tell, he doesn’t like the way anyone writes reports.” She put a quaver into her voice. “It’s all business now, I tell you. No stories.” Then her expression changed. “Raya says we shouldn’t mock him.”

“I wasn’t.”

She smacked his shoulder with her free hand. “You would have.”

“Who is he?” Jors asked, climbing up onto the top rail so he could pay a similar attention to his own Companion. Who seemed to be sulking.

:I was not sulking,:
Gervis protested, pushing against Jors’ leg almost hard enough to knock him off the fence.
:You were ignoring me.:

Jors rolled his eyes as he pushed a hand up under the silken mane and began to scratch.
:Better?:

“Tamis is a historian,” Erica told him. “He has rooms behind the library—I think they used to be storerooms until he took them over. He’s working on the history of the Heralds.”

“Why have I never met him?”

“Because you’re never here.”

Gervis snorted.
:She’s right.:

:We,:
he repeated apologetically. And then something occurred to him. “Don’t histories usually get written after the fact?”

Erica shrugged. “It’s an ongoing history.”

“Let’s hope.”

Tamis had reached the stables and dealt with the heavy door by pounding on it with his cane until someone opened it from the inside. Obviously someone who’d opened the door for Tamis before as he danced back so the next blow missed him.

“How old is his Companion then?”

:She’s not young,:
Gervis answered diplomatically.

 

His room still smelled slightly musty, as if no one had been in it for months. Since he
hadn’t
been in it for months, Jors wasn’t terribly surprised. Crossing to the window, he pried it open and brushed the two dead flies on the sill outside, allowing the living fly to leave under its own power.

On the top floor of the Herald’s Wing, his room had a wounderful view of the Companion’s Field but was so small—a little smaller, in fact, than the rooms housing the Grays—that no one had wanted it until he’d chosen it. Since he’d probably spent less than two months in it over the five years he’d had his Whites, Jors had no problem with the size. He didn’t see much point in claiming space he never used.

A trio of gleaming white figures galloped across the field, kicking up their heels and playing what looked like the Companion version of tag. Even at a distance, he could see all three of them looked distinctly coltish.

:What is it?:
The young stallion sounded a bit petulant.

:Don’t like being stuck in the city,:
Gervis finished his sentence.
:If it helps, don’t think of it as being stuck in the city, think of it as being stuck at the Collegium.:

Jors grinned. Gervis and the mare enjoyed each other’s company whenever they crossed paths.
:You know where I am if you need me.:

:Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re not likely to need me.:
Still grinning, he let their connection fade down to the gentle touch that was always with him and drew in a deep breath. Probably his imagination that he could taste the population of Haven on the breeze, and there was no way he could hear the noise those same people had to be making on the other side of the walls.

 

His new Whites came in time for him to attend a spring garden party at the palace.

:I can’t believe this is what I’m reduced to,:
he muttered, delaying the inevitable by lingering at the Companion’s Field for as long as possible.

:Things are quiet. Quiet is good. And you will not be the only Herald there,:
Gervis reminded him.
:Perhaps you should try enjoying yourself.:

 

“Most of the stains will come out.” Lips pursed, the laundress turned his vest around in her hands.” How on earth did you manage to make such a mess?”

Jors sighed. “My Companion suggested I enjoy myself. That seemed to involve Lord Randall’s eldest daughter, a full glass of wine, two rosebushes, and a dessert tray.”

Her brows rose nearly to her hairline. “That was you?”

“You heard about it?”

“Oh, sweet boy, everyone’s heard about it.” She patted his shoulder with a plump hand. “They’ll be telling the story in the kitchens for years.”

 

“Herald Jors?” The boy grinned up at him, seemingly oblivious to the bruise swelling his left eye shut. “The Dean wants to see you.”

“Thank you ... ?”

“Petrin.”

“What happened to your eye, Petrin?”

“Weapons training.” He grinned. “I forgot to block.”

Impossible not to grin back. “Now you know why you’re supposed to.”

“That’s what the Weaponsmaster said. Me and Serrin, that’s my Companion, Serrin, we can’t wait to get out on the road.”

Jors rubbed at the marks of thorns on the back of his right hand. “Yeah. I know how you feel.”

 

“I’ve got escort duty available, heading south to Hartsvale, a small village up in the hills east of Crescent Lake. Interested?”

“Havens, yes!” Jors felt his cheeks heat up as Dean Carlech raised both brows at his vehemence. “Sorry. Things are just ...
I’m
just better out on the road.”

“I suspect the palace gardeners would agree with you. Herald Tamis’ great-niece is to be married, and he wants to attend. Verati, his Companion, is also elderly and we don’t want them traveling that distance on their own, so your job will be to get them there and back.” He looked down at the papers spread over his desk, one corner of his mouth twitching within the shadow of his beard in an obvious attempt not to laugh. “Enjoy yourself at the wedding. Try not to demolish any topiary.”

“It was an accident.”

“Hellfire, lad!” The laugh escaped. “No one thinks you did it on purpose.”

 

“So, you’re the one who’ll be
escorting
us south.” Eyes narrowed, arms folded, Tamis raked a scathing gaze over Jors. “I’m not thrilled with the idea of a babysitter, just so you know. Verati and I have traveled from one end of this country to the other in our time, and we don’t need a Herald barely out of his Grays assigned to keep an eye on us.”

“I’ve been riding Circuit or Courier for more than five years.”

“Of course you have. I’ve had rashes longer. Verati and I, we’d be fine on our own, I’ve told Carlech that. Not that he listens, the young pup. Well, as long as you’re here,” he said, waving a hand toward the pack on his bed, “you might as well put those young muscles to use and carry that down to the yard for me.”

“Is this it, then?” Jors asked as he lifted the pack. He appreciated the older Herald’s ability to travel light. He never carried more than the bare necessities himself.

“Don’t be absurd, no silly, no
ridiculous
, boy. There’s three more already down there.” Fingers white around the carved head of his cane, Tamis wobbled out into the hall. “We’re not riding Circuit, we’re going to a wedding.”

 

Verati was the closest Jors had ever seen to a stout Companion.

Jors shot a near panicked glance at Gervis, standing saddled and waiting in the yard.
:She can’t hear me, can she?:

Tamis lifted his forehead from where it had been resting against the creamy white forehead of his Companion and shuffled aside, steadying himself on the bridle. “Herald Jors, this is my lady, Verati.”

Jors bowed.

Verati inclined her head carefully so as not to topple her Herald.

:Because things are so quiet there’s not much else happening. And speaking of harping, one of the younger Bards has composed a rondeau. It’s quite good, although I’m not sure
befores
is actually a word.:

 

It took forever to get out of Haven as Tamis seemed to know everyone they passed.

“Move too fast and miss the point of travel,” Tamis snorted when Jors mentioned it. “Everyone has a story. And you’re thinking, ‘Why should I care about everyone’s story? What adventures could a cobbler, no a butcher, no a
whore
have that would be worth telling?’ That’s the trouble with the young. They think there’s only one story and they’re the hero in it.”

“I don’t ...”

“You’d be surprised,” Tamis continued, interrupting Jors’s protest. “Surprised, I tell you, if you took the time to listen. Back in my day, we listened or we got what-for. I remember Shorna, one of my yearmates; she’d never ridden before she was Chosen, and one day, during a class, she went right off over her Companion’s head, and Herald Dorian, she was the instructor, she said, ‘Well, at least it’s a nice day.’ Shorna was so mad Dorian would say it was a nice day after she landed on the grass like that.” He nodded so vigorously, he began to topple, and Verati had to side-step to keep him in the saddle. “It
was
a nice day though,” he added thoughtfully. “They’re all dead now, you know, except for me. It’s no fun getting old, boy. Although ...” he gave a wet cough that Jors realized, after a moment, was meant to be a chuckle.” ... it beats the alternative.”

:Speaking of old; how long can he stay mounted?:
Jors wondered as Tamis greeted a water seller with a question about her father.

In the end, Willow, the younger of their two mules, got them moving, objecting to the crowd at the Hay-market with a well-placed kick. Jors made a mental note to thank her with a carrot at the first opportunity.

 

The South Trade Road offered a wide selection of inns between Haven and Kettlesmith, and, for a while, Jors was afraid they’d be staying in all of them. What had seemed like a ridiculously generous amount of travel time up in the Dean’s office now made more sense.

Tamis was an early riser but only because he napped for an hour or two after they stopped at midday and went to bed while the chickens were foraging for one last meal in the inn yards. Jors spent his evenings grooming both Companions. Verati had a disconcerting way of falling asleep the moment he put brush to withers, but then Verati had a disconcerting way of falling asleep whenever they stopped, her head falling forward until her breath blew two tiny, identical divots out of the dusty ground.