Exile's Honor

The words hung heavily in the air, and Talamir glanced out the window of the sitting room. It was moon-dark, and a Companion ghosted into and out of sight among the trees out there, a glimmer of white in the darkness.

'There's too many bloody bastards taking advantage of the situation to make trouble. Or money. Or both,' Dethor muttered. 'You cut one down, and two more spring up to replace him. It wasn't like that when I was doing the dirty work. It was never that vile down by Exile's Gate.'

Talamir shrugged; they both knew that was true enough. Haven had been stripped of all but a skeleton staff of the Guard; constables and even private bodyguards had gone to join the army. The opportunities for the criminal and unscrupulous were legion. Alberich and a trusted handful of constables and the Palace and City Guard were accomplishing more than even the Council guessed. None of it had anything to do with being a Herald, of course— other than an occasional use of the Truth Spell and his communication with Kantor, Alberich never did anything that could not have been done by an ordinary constable.

Providing, of course, that an ordinary constable had his knack for subterfuge and covert work. Which, of course, none of them did. There was only one Alberich.

He couldn't rid the place of crime forever, but every time he removed a criminal from the streets, it look a while for someone else to fill the void left behind, a breathing space for the constables still at work on the street.

Alberich had a real flare for working clandestinely, something he'd probably never explored back in Karse. Talamir wondered how Alberich felt about this new skill; it didn't seem to match the persona of a simple military man.

As if Alberich would ever be a simple anything.

'It was never that vile because there were never that many opportunities,' Talamir pointed out. 'And what are we to do? Demand some sort of certification of virtue from everyone who passes the gates? Haul them away and question them under Truth Spell as to their motives? I think not. The best we can do is what Alberich's doing, and thank the gods we have him.'

The fire flared, revealing Dethor's troubled expression.

'You know the man's in a real mental state,' Dethor said, leveling a long and accusatory look at his old friend. Talamir shifted uncomfortably, but his conscience forced him to meet Dethor's eyes. 'I have the feeling that he's overworking, just so he can sleep at night. I have the feeling that he's looking for trouble just so he can work out his frustration on a legitimate object. The problem is, when you start looking for trouble, it starts looking for you.'

Talamir sighed, deliberately looking down at the plate of fruit on the table between their chairs. Slowly and methodically, he picked up an apple and began to peel it. 'I know,' he admitted. 'I wish there was something that I could do about it. But even if we hadn't promised we would never ask him to do anything against Karse—'

'—the Council won't allow him out of Haven.' Dethor snorted, and Talamir looked up from his apple with reluctance. The creases and wrinkles of Dethor's face turned his frown into something demonic, and the firelight only amplified the effect. 'Dammit, Talamir. Can't you do anything about this? I know he wants to do something about the Wars, and I see his face every time he watches another batch of youngsters going south. It's tearing him up!'

'What? Vouch for him? I have, a hundred times and more,' Talamir replied, nettled that Dethor would even think he'd been doing less than he could for Alberich. 'Then there's the little matter of what he calls his honor.'

'Which he's damned touchy about,' Dethor growled.

'Exactly so,' Talamir agreed. 'So what are we going to do? Truth here—I'd give both legs for a dozen Alberichs, all willing to go spying back there among his own people. Damned insular Karsites! Strangers stand out among 'em like a chirra in a herd of sheep. Accents, mannerisms, what they know without even knowing that they know it—' He threw up his hands in frustration. '—you just can't teach those sorts of things!'

'Tell me something I don't know,' Dethor said, throwing an apple core into the fire in a gesture of exasperation. 'Just how many agents have we lost?'

'Too many.' Talamir was just glad that none of them had been Heralds. He had argued—successfully—that the Heralds were too few to risk inside the borders of Karse. But the fact was, from the beginning he had doubted the ability of any of them to pass as Karsite, and when the Sunpriests got their hands on Heralds, the results were traumatic for every Herald. It wasn't just the Death Bell tolling that sent everyone into a spate of mourning, it was that everyone knew what happened to Heralds that got caught in Karse. There was a sick fear behind the mourning, and the same kind of frustration and anger that sent Alberich out looking for a fight.

The Lord Marshal had been perfectly willing to send in his own people, however, and when he did, exactly what Talamir feared, happened. Karse devoured agents as a child devours sweets. They seemed to last about a moon before they were discovered; certainly not much longer. What happened to them after that, Talamir was all too aware; he preferred not to dwell on it, for at least all the men had been volunteers and knew precisely what awaited them if captured. Certainly, no more than a handful had returned.