The Valdemar Companion Read online

  By the time the day was over, the boy knew his way around the Collegla and had enough friends to see to it that he got to where he was supposed to be going until he knew the routine himself. At that point, unless he ran into trouble, Tafri’s job as mentor was to let him be, and he did just that. After all, he had his own classes to attend to, and he was in his final year before his internship, so he didn’t want to mess up at this late date.

  This year, besides the usual weapons-class and History, he had a number of classes that were supposed to prepare him for duty in the Field. There was a complicated class in Law, one in Negotiation, a Strategy and Tactics class that (unlike the one given to officer-trainees in the Guard) concentrated on the use of small groups in combat. And, of course, Practical Maths; things like figuring out wall-making and bridge-building so that the walls didn’t collapse at a look and the bridges didn’t fall apart under the first heavy wagon. Not his favorite class, but he could see how it would help him out there.

  Law and Negotiation were more to his liking. He didn’t much care for the idea that he might actually have to use that Strategy and Tactics class.

  But of all of them, his favorite was one held only every three days—with the intriguing title of “Magic, or Fakery?” Now that real magic was back in Valdemar, there were any number of folks who were playing on the fears and desires of ordinary folk by pretending to have powers they didn’t. This class was supposed to help Heralds in the field figure out—and unmask—the fakers.

  And it was taught by not one but a triad of teachers: the Hawkbrother Darkwind, the blind Karsite Sun-priest Ambassador Karal, and the White Winds Mage Shoshonna. Each session was about a particular power commonly claimed by mages or those pretending to be mages. Darkwind would show how it was done with real magic, and Shoshonna or Karal would show how it could be faked.

  The fact that real magic was so much weaker since the Mage Storms actually aided the fakers, who didn’t have to demonstrate any great powers, only small ones. Tafri had hoped he wouldn’t have to skip this session to look after his charge, and it was with relief that he left the boy with his new friends and hurried over to Mages’ Collegium to join the rest of his class in the late afternoon. It was a blustery early-spring day, and the wind cut through his cloak like a knife as he crossed the open ground between the two wings. He could have cut through the Palace, but he still felt rather diffident about doing that. And besides, it took longer that way.

  He was glad he hadn’t missed the class, for it was a fascinating demonstration of how a person could fake having either Mage-Gift or the Mind-Magic called Fetching. Karal deftly bent spoons “with his Gift,” and Shoshonna made objects move on the surface of a table and appear to float in midair. All done by means other than magic, of course. Karal bent the spoon ahead of time while the class was momentarily distracted, then moved the bent portion into view so slowly that it seemed he was actually bending it before their eyes. And Shoshonna had taken one of her own fine hairs to make a loop she held between her thumbs—invisible at most distances, but strong enough to move small objects across the table or suspend them in the air.

  Then all three of the teachers took turns in telling instances where these particular tricks had been used to intimidate or frighten others.

  Frighten? Yes indeed. “I know of one case where the fake threatened to use his power to stop people’s hearts if they didn’t give him what he wanted,” Shoshonna said, as Karal nodded.

  “Indeed,” the Karsite Ambassador agreed. “There were far more Sun-priests in the bad days before Solaris cleansed the Temples who faked their powers than there were those who actually had them. One demonstration of ‘magic’ and their congregations would do practically anything they wished.”

  The huge rust-and-white cat that never left the Ambassador’s side nodded. Now Tafri knew that the Firecat was the equivalent of a Companion, and that Ambassador Karal literally saw through the Firecat’s eyes, but when he had first seen them together it had seemed very odd that this “pet” went everywhere that Sunpriest Karal did.

  After a bit more discussion, the class was dismissed, and Tafri made his way back through what was now an ice-edged wind to get to the Common Room in time for dinner. He made sure his young charge was happily ensconced at a corner table with his new friends, then sought out Hadrin and Holly.

  “So what did you see this time?” asked Holly, as they all settled in together over bowls of stew that tasted very good after fighting the bitter wind.

  He explained between bites. Holly couldn’t wait to take this class herself; although she was no Mage, she had a fairly strong Gift of Fetching, and it fascinated her that similar effects could he produced both by real magic and trickery. Hadrin was not nearly as fascinated, perhaps because, unlike his twin, he had no really strong Gifts so the subject was still only of academic interest to him.

  For that matter, Tafri didn’t have a particularly strong Gift even of Mindspeech, except with Adelayan, but he’d been looking forward to the class since he first heard about it.

  :Yes, and you are indifferent to Maths,: Adelayan pointed out later, when he discussed Hadrin’s indifference to a class that was giving the Trainees a real handle on how to recognize something that Shoshonna said was a growing problem in Valdemar.

  Tafri put his full weight behind the brush strokes he was giving to Adelayan’s glossy flank. “Yes, but…“ He sighed. “Look, what if someone tries to impersonate a Herald next?”

  :What makes you think they haven‘t?: Adelayan countered. :That’s not the point, though. Your trouble is that Hadrin is indifferent to the subject, but that’s because he isn‘t as inclined to think ahead as you are. Right?:

  Tafri thought it over and had to admit that this was the case.

  :Look at his marks in Strategy and Tactics,: Adelayan pointed out. :He’s just not that good at thinking ahead. I think his sister got all the imagination that was intended for both of them!:

  Tafri had to laugh at that. “I guess that’s true,” he said, changing brushes to work on Adelayan’s tail. “I’ve seen bricks with more imagination than Hadrin. But he is awfully good at Maths, and at figuring things out…“

  :And that’s the point. Not even a Herald can be good at everything. Right?:

  “Right.” He mulled this over while he disentangled a minute knot. “So… the thing is that once he’s had his Internship Year—and he’ll be put with a Herald who does have more imagination than a brick—he’ll get assigned somewhere that a lack of that sort of forethought isn’t a problem?”

  :Exactly. That’s why we don‘t want any of you to hide your weaknesses. They have to be addressed, and if they can‘t be turned into strengths, then they have to be factored into what your assignments are.: Adelayan nudged him affectionately. :Which is another reason for having Companions, among many others. The primary one being, of course, that we are eminently superior beings whose place is to be worshipped and adored.:

  “Of course,” replied Tafri, choking on laughter. “Of course!”

  Five

  Journey's End, and New Beginnings

  For the past six months, Tafri had been riding circuit on his Internship with a wily old fox of a Herald named Jonaton. Their circuit took them through farming country, rolling hills to the south and west of Haven that were dotted with small villages whose inhabitants seldom went further than the next village up or down the road during the course of their natural lives, and never saw any reason to want to. “Bucolic,” was the term Jon used, with a twinkle in his eye.

  Tafri had a certain amount of sympathy for their preferences after all, if Adelayan hadn’t Chosen him, he likely would never have left his own little hamlet.

  Even the Mage-Storms had hardly made a mark here. The farmers and small-craftsmen were comfortable, prospering, and disinclined to stick their noses out of “local business.” Whatever they wanted from the outside world generally arrived on their doorsteps anyway, with the advent of one of the four seasonal Faires.
Spring was the first of the two Hiring Faires, bringing in an influx of new labor for house and field as laborers shook the dust of the property of one employer from their feet in hopes of finding a better one. Midsummer was a Faire more appreciated by the young—as was Midwinter, though Midwinter interfered less with a farmer’s daily work. Both were nominally religious festivals, but the religious services that marked the Solstices were pretty much subsumed into celebration for all but the deeply pious. Midwinter was the Faire for children; Midsummer for the single. Autumn brought the biggest, the Harvest Faires, when livestock was bought and sold, surplus crops auctioned, and money freer to spend. Needless to say, these Faires did not all take place at the same time in every village—they tended to be spread out across the moon before and after the actual Solstice to enable merchants and entertainers to travel from village to village in order to fully profit.

  Aside from those four seasonal punctuations, nothing much happened here. Squabbles were all petty ones. Tafri had ample opportunity to practice his skills in negotiation and to learn every nit-picking little variation on local law by heart.

  For if there was one thing these people loved to do, it was argue and debate. Should a pair of farmers observe one boundary marker that might have been moved by the root of a tree, it was off to the Law Courts with them, and if they couldn’t settle there, then it was all saved up, savored and allowed to stew in its own juices until the Heralds came around on circuit. The smallest of changes to existing law or custom decreed by the crown was the source of debate that went on for days before people grudgingly agreed to accept it.

  Jon shared this burden equally with Tafri, although at first he had assigned his Internee the easiest and simplest of the cases. Mind, the easiest and simplest were not by any means the quickest to resolve; It seemed to Tafri that the more obvious the solution was, the more inclined these people were to draw out the argument as long as possible.

  But they were generous in their hospitality, and cheerfully insular. They didn’t go far from their home villages because they couldn’t imagine anything better than their home villages, and didn’t want to try.

  If they were complacent, it was because they were protected from dangers they couldn’t even guess at. And that, Tafri had decided, was all right. There was no harm in it if these little farmers and craftsmen, plump in their embroidered feast-day tunics, considered themselves the apex of civilization, They arguably produced the best butter and cheese, the softest fleeces, the sweetest mutton, the most succulent beef, richest corn, the biggest vegetables in the Kingdom—but they also produced their share of brave young men and women who marched off in the blue uniforms of the Guard to help protect all of this pastoral richness—and even threw the occasional Bard, Healer, and Herald.

  They were in the middle of Midsummer Faire season, at the moment, and although they seldom spent more than a day or two in any single village, Tafri had the feeling that they were probably going to sample every Midsummer Faire on their circuit before they saw the last of Midsummer Moon. He thought he knew why, too—Faires attracted cheats and thieves as well as honest men, but the knowledge that a Herald was going to show up at some time during the Faire could keep crimes at the petty level.

  They rode into Michelham, a peaceful little town nestled in a green cup of a valley, hearing at a distance the sounds of the Faire—the complaints of animals, for there was always some buying and selling of livestock at all four Faires, not just the Harvest Faire—distant bits of music, mingled chatter, shouting, laughter, the screams of excited children.

  A slender but deep and swift-running stream was between them and Michelham. They crossed it on an arched stone bridge, and on any day other than a Faire-day, they would have been spotted long before this by children, who would have brought word of their imminent arrival long before they made that crossing. But the children had other concerns today than the arrival of a couple of Heralds; it wasn’t until they crossed the bridge that someone actually saw them.

  It was a curious sight—a shepherd, crook in hand, without sheep. Easily explained of course, by the fact that he’d brought lambs he intended to cull here, to sell as meat on the hoof. But the look he gave them was very peculiar.

  “Eh, Heralds!” he saluted them. “Reckon ye’d best get onto the green, afore these fool townsmen get thesselves into a mort more trouble than they already bought thesselves.”

  And with that, he turned and walked rapidly away, as if he regretted having said anything at all.

  Jon and Tafri exchanged a glance, and their Companions put their ears back and hastened their steps.

  But they weren’t quite quick enough to get to the village green without being intercepted.

  “Herald Jonaton! Herald Tafri!” called a too hearty voice from Tafri’s right. “Stop, would you?”

  Both Companions halted, and the Mayor of Michelham came puffing up, out of breath and red-faced after making a sprint that was ill-suited to one of his bulk. “Well!” the Mayor said cheerfully. “Got a bit of a surprise for you. We’ve got no need of your services, and thank you kindly. So come and enjoy the Faire if you will, and take a holiday, or go on up the road to Fetheston.“

  It was plain, very plain, that it was the latter that the Mayor hoped they’d do. “Indeed!” Jonaton said with just as much hearty cheer as the Mayor—and just as false. “And how is it that you’ve managed your townsmen so well that the most wrangling lot of farmers in all the Kingdom have no need of our services? I must know! Such a revelation could ease things in every town and village from here to Lake Evendim!”

  ‘Well—ah— “ the Mayor broke out in a sweat. “You see, we’ve got a lad now as has a Truth Spell, but it’s one as doesn’t have to be put on anyone, if you’ll take my meaning.”

  “Really?” Jonaton asked, eyebrows arching.

  “Ah, it’s always a bit off-putting, you know, to have that Spell put on you,” the Mayor continued awkwardly. “And then to have your neighbors know you for a liar, if it shows you up—no, this is better. More comfortable like. Nobody gets showed up, the Spell just gives the Truth without any accusations, you understand. The lad that does it—he’s quite a good Mage, and it’s a wonder he isn’t a Herald, he’s that clever—”

  “Indeed,” Jonaton said dryly. “Well, let’s see this paragon of yours! I am very eager to find out what it is he can do!”

  “Urn—” the Mayor prevaricated, but it was too late. The words were out of his mouth, and there was nothing for it but to take them where they asked, to a booth where a sharp-faced man was “holding court,” quite as if he was a Herald.

  They could hardly hope to remain unnoticed in their stark white uniforms and with the two Companions, so they didn’t even try. And as soon as the crowd noticed they were there, people moved aside, some with guilty looks, some with curious, some clearly waiting gleefully to see what the Heralds made of their “replacement.”

  The man at the table gazed up at them—not getting to his feet—with brazen insolence. “Well, Heralds,” he drawled. “You might as well go enjoy yourselves. I have matters well in hand here, where the law and disputation is concerned.”

  “So I hear!” Jonaton said, not a trace of his earlier skepticism showing. “If you’ve no objection, we’d like to watch! Neither of us have ever seen a different version of the Truth Spell before.”

  “And you won’t, now,” muttered a very quiet voice at Tafri’s back—too low to be heard at the table.

  The man waved his hand airily at them, dismissing them with a little flick of the wrist. “If it amuses you, be my guest,” he said, and turned his attention pointedly and rudely back to the two people sitting In front of him.

  “Now, you understand that the Spirits can’t be fooled,” he said sternly. “If you, Goodman Brell, are in the right, the pages of the Holy Book of Kernos will turn of themselves and stop at the page that your straw marks. If it is you, Herdsman, they will stop at your straw. Are you ready?”

  Tafri didn
’t like the sly, smug look in the farmer’s eyes, as if he already knew the verdict and was just marking time for the charade to be over. The Herdsman was nervous; he certainly didn’t know what the result would be…

  The man made a few mystical passes and spoke something that sounded like (and probably was) gibberish. Then, with both hands flat on either side of the book, he gazed down at it—and the pages started to move, fluttering over, one at a time.

  :I believe we’ve seen this before, Chosen,: noted Adelayan.

  :I believe you’re right,: Tafri replied. “Hold on a moment, friend!” Tafri boomed, startling everyone. “You know, this might just be Fetching Gift, and not a Truth Spell at all—”

  “What?” gasped the Herdsman.

  “So let’s just make sure only the Spirits can see the Holy Book, for surely they know where to stop!”

  Arid Tafri took an empty market basket from a startled housewife and clapped it over the top of the book.

  “There now! The pages can turn freely enough in there—” he began, when the man who had been so very confident the moment before suddenly made a bolt for the back of the booth.

  When it was all sorted out, the man’s purse was found to be full of coin—every one of his “judgments” had been bought and paid for. And as for how the pages of the Holy Book had been turning by themselves—well, they hadn’t. It had been one of lite tricks Tafri had learned in that class on fakery. The man had learned how to blow hard enough on the pages of a book to turn them, but without any sign that he was doing so. A session under Truth Spell got all of that out of him, and it was very odd that no one now seemed to mind the Spell being “put on” anyone.