Exile's Honor

Collegium, have a tankard or a glass of wine, flirt harmlessly with a serving girl. And why not? Heralds, as Talamir took pains to remind him, were only human.

Sometimes a number of friends wanted to get together when they all came in at once; there really wasn't a big enough room in the Palace where five or more could put their feet up and talk as long and as loudly as they wanted. You could get food anytime you wanted it, but it tended to be the sort of thing that could be fed to a great many people at once—and a bespoke meal, of exactly what one had a craving for, was something even Heralds sometimes fancied.

The innkeeper took him to the Heralds' parlor and showed him to a seat by a window, from which he could see, in the frequent flashes of lightning, rain pouring down as if it would never stop. A moment later, a serving girl brought him hot pigeon pie of his own, and a tankard of the innkeeper's own bitter ale. It wasn't Karsite, but it was close, and unlike the harsh brews of the mountains, it was good.

The high back of the settle screened him from most of the room, which, in any event, was empty and likely to remain so if the weather continued to be this bad. There was no closing door to this room, and a low hum, like a hive of drowsy bees, came from the common room, in between peals of thunder. The contrast between inside and outside was so striking; storms like this commonly occurred in the mountains of Karse, but this was the first time he'd ever spent one sitting in a comfortable, warm seat with a hot dinner in front of him and the spicy scent of mulled cider in the air.

He could remember dozens of these storms when he was a tiny child, when he'd huddled beside the smoking, struggling fire on the hearth in the middle of the room, while the roof leaked in a dozen places and more rain dripped down through the smoke hole in the middle of the roof. The shutters would rattle with the force of the wind, and his mother would hold him close as she carefully fed the fire with the driest bits of wood, to keep it alive. He didn't remember the ones when he was in the temple, though; that sturdy wooden structure never left him with the fear that at any moment the roof would blow away. But the ones when he was older, helping out at the inn—yes. He'd be in the stable, helping to calm the horses, struggling to get doors closed, running all over with buckets to catch leaks. Or he'd be out in it, tying things down, bringing them in, and never mind the lightning striking near—too near!—and the cold rain soaking him through. The Academy was down in the valley, in a place that didn't get storms like that, but once he was out with the cavalry—oh, he lived through plenty more of them. Most of the time, out in the open. You hoped for a chance to get your tents up first, and you'd wrap every blanket you had around your shoulders and watch the rain stream down off the edges of the canvas and know it would be a cold supper again. Being caught without shelter, though, was worse. The best you could do was get down in a valley, try and find the scrubbiest, lowest stand of trees, and get under them. You'd get off your horse, because with the lighting and thunder, even a trained cavalry horse could bolt. You'd use the canvas of your tent as a raincape, and hope it kept the worst of it off you, standing with your head down, one hand holding your horse's bridle up near his nose, the other holding the canvas just under your chin, shivering, both you and the horse.

Oh, this was better, much better, like so much of his life since he'd come to Valdemar. And yet, it was not enough, and he was not certain if the problem was within himself or Valdemar.

He was glad enough that there was no one here. It allowed him to be left alone with his thoughts. He was rarely truly alone for very long.

'I understand you've lost your first fight,' said someone at his elbow.

The voice was female—familiar, but he couldn't put a name to it immediately, for the words startled him so much.

'Eh?' was all he could manage, as he swiveled to see who it was that had interrupted his solitude.

'With a fish,' Herald—no longer Trainee—Myste amended, her glass lenses glittering with reflected lightning. She sat down across from him without waiting to be invited. 'A rather small fish,' she added in Karsite, with a chuckle.

The serving-girl, laden with Myste's dinner, set her dishes down opposite Alberich's, then she whisked back through the door to the common room, leaving them together.

'Ah.' He found trying to see past those lenses rather disconcerting. 'You have been speaking with Selenay.'

He found it a relief to speak Karsite; Valdemaran was still a trial to him, and he had the sinking feeling that it was going to take years, even tens of years, before he was comfortable in it. He managed with his low-class personae mainly by being taciturn, knowing that the people around him wouldn't recognize a Karsite accent anyway.

'It's more-or-less my job,' she replied. 'It's thanks to you I've got the job, I'm told—training with Elcarth, and Interning in the city courts with Selenay as the senior judge. I'm Elcarth's Second, and Elcarth believes I should be ready to step into the Herald-Chronicler position within a year or two.'

'Good,' he said, and meant it. 'And what has my ignorance of fishing got to do with the Chronicles?'

'Not a thing,' she admitted. 'It just came up in our discussions. I just let people rattle on, you know; it's the most effective way to learn things.' She paused, and tilted her head to the side. 'I don't suppose you would be willing to rattle on at me?'

He opened his mouth to say no, then closed it again. It was an interesting thought. 'And this would go into the restricted Chronicles?' he asked instead.