Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

way in. Usually Companions weren't stabled like this—but Carris had insisted that Arana be as horselike as possible.

'Does she like sugar?'

Carris had laughed. 'As much as a real horse.'

She hadn't snuck into stables since she was child, but she'd lost none of her old instincts. She made her way, unerringly, to Arana's stall.

She wasn't particularly surprised to find Arana waiting for her. 'Hello,' she said softly. The Companion, as expected, didn't answer. A pang of disappointment, like a slightly off-key chord, rippled through her and vanished. 'I'm Kelsey.'

Arana lifted her head and nodded.

'I suppose you've met a lot of people like me. I—I always wanted to be a Herald. I've always prayed that one day, a Companion would Choose me. It's never happened,' she added ruefully. 'And I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me why.'

Arana put her head over the stall's door and let Kelsey scratch her. It was easier than scratching a normal horse; the Companion seemed to be more sensitive. 'Doesn't matter. Cards wants me to stay here, with you, while he does some fool thing on his own, injured, without anyone to look after his back. What do you think of that?'

Arana said absolutely nothing, but she became completely still. Kelsey shook her head and lowered the lamp. 'That's what I thought as well. Here. I brought you some sugar.'

'Where do you think you're going?' Carris, dressed like a well-to-do villager, frowned as Kelsey let her backpack slide off her shoulders to land on the ground with a thump.

'Talked it out with Torvan,' she replied, around her last mouthful of bread and cheese, 'and he says it's a go.' She swallowed, wiped her hands on her pants, rolled her hair into its familiar bun, and shoved her coin bag into the inner reaches of her shirt.

'What's a go?' Carris asked, suspicion giving him an aura of unease that made Kelsey want to laugh out loud.

'I'm going with you, Carris.' She checked her long dagger, and then picked up her wooden bat. Made sure she had a hat, and a scarf to keep it attached to her head.

'That's preposterous,' he replied. 'You are doing no such thing.'

She shrugged. 'Whatever you say.'

'Kelsey—'

'Look—what did you think you were going to do? Dress like that, but pick up a fast and fancy horse that'll take you to the capital?'

He looked taken aback.

'You'll stand out like a scarecrow. You're afraid that someone following you would recognize Arana, and if that's the case, you'll be recognized if you travel as you'd planned. Trust me.'

'I wasn't aware that you'd studied the arts of subterfuge. You certainly haven't mastered the art of subtlety.'

'Ho ho ho.' She bent down and picked up her pack; slung it over one shoulder, and then bent down for his. 'Don't argue with me,' she said, not even bothering to look up. 'I'll take the packs. You take your arm and your ribs. Oh, damn.'

'What?'

'I almost forgot.'

'What?'

'The hair. It has to go.'

Carris was in a decidedly less cheerful mood when they finally departed the inn. 'Look, Kelsey,' he said tersely. 'You may not believe this, but that hair was my single vanity.'

'A man your age shouldn't be beholden to a single vanity,' she replied sweetly. 'Now come on. You've come at a good time—I've a friend who guards one of the caravan routes, and they're always looking for new hands.'

'As a caravan guard in this territory?' Carris raised an eyebrow. 'You do realize that with the upsurge in banditry lately, he's just asking for trouble?'

Something about the way he said the word 'banditry' caught her attention; she pursued it like a cat does a mouse. 'What do you know about the bandit problems?'

He didn't reply.

'This have something to do with the message you need to deliver?'

He nodded, but no matter how she pressed him, he would say nothing else.

Well, it's King's business, not mine, Kelsey thought. And probably better that I don't know. She knew enough, after all, to know that as a Herald he was trustworthy, and that anyone who tried to kill him was as much the King's enemy—and therefore her own—as a stranger could be. Still, she felt a twinge of envy; she knew that were she a Herald, they'd talk openly of their mission-like equals. Comrades.

As if he could read her thoughts—and it was rumored that some Heralds could—he said, 'It isn't that I don't trust you, Kelsey.'

'Don't bother with explanations. I can come up with a dozen good ones on your behalf and you don't even have to open your mouth.' She paused, and then stopped. 'You can wield that thing, can't you?'

'Both of them, yes,' he replied, smiling.

'Good.'

'What did you intend as a weapon?'

'This.' She pulled her bat out of her pack and swung it in a wide circle. 'I call it a club.'

'You're going to sign on as a caravan guard wielding a club?'

'You've never seen me wield a club before,' she assured him. Then she laughed. 'You should see your face. Yes, I intend to sign on, but I'll probably do it as cook or a handler. If a person's willing and able to work, there are always jobs on the trade routes. Especially now.' She started to say something else, and then stopped. 'Are you in pain?'

'Yes,' he said, but the word was so soft it was a whisper.

She studied his pale face for a moment and then grimaced. The death of his friend wasn't real for him yet, but in bits and pieces it was becoming that way. Kelsey was almost glad that she wouldn't be with him when he finally completed his mission—because she was certain that when he did, he'd collapse with grief and guilt.

She'd seen enough hurt men and women come through Torvan's place to know the look of it.

'That's the life of a Herald, dear,' her grandmother would tell her.

'I know,' she told her grandmother's memory. 'But I want it just the same.'

David Fruitman had the look of a barbarian to him. His face was never closely shaven, but never full-bearded, his brown hair was wavy—almost scruffy—and long, and his carriage gave the impression not only of size, but of the ability to use the strength that came with it to good advantage.

Kelsey waved and shouted to catch his attention.

When he saw her, he rolled his eyes. 'What, you again?'

Carris hung back a bit, unsure of the larger man's reception, but Kelsey bounded in, slapped him hard on the upper arm, and then dropped the two packs she carried to give him a bear hug. She called him something that was best left in the tavern among friends who had had far too much to drink, and then swung him around.

'Carris, get your backside up here. David, this is Carris. Carris, this is David. He's what passes for a guard captain around here.'

David looked at Carris, raised an eyebrow, and then looked down at Kelsey. 'There's a problem, Kelse,' he said.

'What?'

'His arm's broken.'

'So? It's not his sword arm.'

Carris and David exchanged raised brows. 'Shall I explain, or shall you?' Carris said.

'You do it. I'm not getting enough danger pay as is.'

'Very funny, both of you. David—can I talk to you in private for a minute or two?'