them into a bracelet for him. He wouldn’t eat them then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Jors told her. “He likes to eat. He likes travel biscuits and egg and goat’s milk. Oh, and Helena at the settlement said that the next time they bring a load of lumber out, she’ll pay you for Torbin’s goat. She followed us to the settlement.” Torbin reached out a hand, and Jors pretended to grab it and eat the fingers, making him shriek with laughter. “He likes to run, and he seems to have no idea of self preservation, but he’s a tough little guy and a big believer in picking himself up and getting on with things when he falls. He doesn’t talk a lot. I don’t know if that’s usual for his age, but he says
“Ossy!”
She was smiling now and shaking her head.
“We need to get back on the trail so . . . uh . . .” It was harder to say goodbye than he’d expected. He planted a kiss on the dimpled knuckles and released Torbin’s hand. “Be a good boy for your auntie.”
“Ossy!”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Jors thought of Torbin’s father. “I wish I could have done more.” He turned, then turned again. “Do you think, I mean, would you mind if I stopped by to visit him if I’m in the area? I wouldn’t be checking up or anything; I just . . .”
. . . had stains all over his uniform, and the smell might never leave his saddle bags, and it was entirely possible he still had egg in his ear.
“Would I mind if a Herald came by to visit my brother’s son? Why would I ever mind that? Why would anyone. But why would you?” Mirril’s cheeks were flushed, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “I mean, you have so much more important things to do.”
“Ossy!”
With an ease that came from three days of intensive training, Jors caught the future of Valdemar as he threw himself out of his auntie’s arms shrieking, “Ossy!”
“Actually,” he said, letting Torbin slide to the ground and wrap himself around one of the Companion’s legs, “I don’t. Not really.”
:
The Thief of Anvil’s Close
Fiona Patton was born in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, and grew up in the United States. In 1975 she returned to Canada and now lives in rural Ontario with her partner and nine cats. She has six books out from DAW, including her latest,
, the second in the Warriors of Estavia series and is currently working on the third and final book, tentatively entitled
. She has over thirty short stories with Tekno Books and DAW. “The Thief of Anvil’s Close” is the second Valdemar story featuring Haven’s Dann family.
It was a beautiful, autumn afternoon in Haven, the kind you remembered long afterward: warm and brightly sunny, with just enough breeze to sweeten the air with the heady aromas of baking bread and . . .
Standing on the crowded threshold of the Iron Street Watch House, Sergeant Hektor Dann took a deep breath, his eye tightly closed . . .
And . . . meat pies.
He smiled. Every year, from the very first day his mother had allowed him to bring his father and grandfather their dinners at age six to the day he was named, first watchhouse sweeper, then runner, then finally constable, the autumn breeze had carried the same scents on the breeze. He could almost feel the cloth-wrapped pot of warm stew against his chest, the worn, wooden broom handle in his hands, the cold cobblestones against his bare feet, the scratch of the brand new uniform tunic against his wrists.
“Hek! Hektor! I mean, Sergeant!”
Almost, but not quite. He opened his eyes.
His youngest brother, eleven-year-old Padreic, newly made watchhouse runner, rocked to a halt in front of him, breathing like a forge bellows. His face was red with exertion, but his eyes shone with importance and just a hint of mischief that Hektor instantly mistrusted.
“Runner.”
“You’re wanted on . . . Anvil’s Close,” his brother panted, ignoring his older brother’s attempt at a stern expression. “At
“Who’s wantin’ me, Edzel or one of his neighbors?”
“Edzel.”
“Well that’s somethin’ anyway. Leastways, there won’t be a public nuisance complaint or an assault charge.” Last month, Master Blacksmith Edzel Smith had thrown an andiron at a farrier who’d though his concerns were “funny.” Edzel was a lot of things, but he was never funny.
“There might still be,” Padreic disagreed, his breath back and the look of importance growing on his face as he savored the information he possessed that his older brother didn’t. “He’s throwin’ a right barny this time,” he embellished. “Rantin’ and ravin’ like a fit’s on him. Says someone’s been thievin’ his goods.”
“Edzel always thinks someone’s been thievin’ his goods.”
Hektor turned to see their oldest brother, Corporal Aiden Dann, standing behind him, an unimpressed expression on his face.
“This time he’s worse, Aiden,” Padreic assured him. “ ’Cause this time he might be right.”
“Hm.” Aiden glanced at Hektor. “Well,
“I’m goin’ . . .”
“Only?”
“Only . . .” Hektor gave his older brother a helpless look, and Aiden shook his head in disgust.
“Fine, I’ll go with you.”
“Thanks, Aiden.”
“Thanks, Corporal,” his brother prompted.
“Yeah, thanks Corporal.”
Anvil’s Close lay just off the Iron Market entrance gates. A narrow, neatly cobblestoned street, it was made up of small forges and iron shops where the city’s blacksmiths and their families sold everything from wrought iron railings and window grills to surgical tools and musical instruments: anything that could be fashioned out of metal. An older woman, dressed in a stout leather apron, leaned out the door of the first shop as they passed by.
“Well, well, Sergeant Dann,” she said with a wicked smile. “Haven’t you just gotten all grown up an’ promoted. Ismy wouldn’t know you to look at you now.”
Hektor kept his expression as neutral as possible although he could feel his neck turning red above the collar of his blue and gray watchman’s uniform. “Hello, Judee,” he replied.
“Crazy old fool’ll bring on a fit if he’s not careful,” she noted, jerking her head down the Close. “Best get yourself over there double quick afore he does his heart a mischief.”
Hektor nodded and carried on at once, but Aiden paused for a moment.
“I’ve a buckle that needs mendin’, Judee. You got time?”
She nodded. “Send it over with Paddy. I’ll have it done by your shift’s end.”
“Thanks.”
As he made to follow his younger brother, her expression turned serious. “Really, Aiden, get that old fool sorted out, will you? His rantin’s bad for business, an’ not just for him; for the whole Close.”
“We will.”
“You tell him he’s scarin’ his grandbaby. That might do it.”
He nodded, catching up with Hektor as he made—with some reluctance—for the small iron shop across the
