Exile's Valor

“The best choice, I think,” he agreed. “No one is going to seriously suggest that you give up a grand inheritance in favor of a position with a theater company that doesn’t even have a theater yet. And in case Clerk Myste ever has to come back to Haven, it can either be as a visit after your wealthy aunt has died, or it can turn out that the wealthy aunt wasn’t as wealthy as she made herself out to be, and you are back looking for work.”

“Excellent,” Myste replied, and closed her eyes and sagged back against the wall, “And I have to leave immediately. Better yet, I’m already gone. My aunt sent a coach, and I left in it. I don’t mind telling you, I was panicked. Especially after last night.”

Alberich nodded; he could well understand Myste’s concern, for last night she had gotten to copy another one of those encrypted messages from Norris to—well, whoever they were to.

And that gave him an idea. “Writing a letter is perfect,” he said, “In fact, write two. One to the manager of the company and one to Norris. If you were as infatuated as he thinks you are, he’d think it strange if you didn’t send him a personal good-bye. As your old friend, I’ll take them both over, and you can go back up the hill as soon as you change.”

“What—” Myste began, and then she nodded. “Right! So that Norris doesn’t suspect, after last night, that I’m a spy who is running off now that I have what I need. I think I know just the tone. The brokenhearted farewell letter of the hopelessly infatuated woman who knows she had less chance with him than a lapdog, but can’t bear not to tell him about how her soul will be empty forever without him. It’ll take some clever writing—”

“And hold out the offer that if he is ever in—Three Rivers, I think that’s far enough, and rustic enough—or if he ever finds himself down on his luck, he can call on you for anything he needs.” Alberich chuckled a little as Myste made a face. “You might as well spread it on thick.”

“Oh, I will.” She stood up and went to the small chest that held writing materials. “This won’t take very long.”

And it didn’t. By the time he was finished changing into his guise as the carter, she had finished both letters, sanded them to dry the ink, folded, and sealed them with a blob of candle-wax and her thumbprint. On the outside of one, she made a little drawing of a pen, and on the other, a mask. “The mask goes to Norris,” she said, handing them to him.

“Good. Would it sound loutish of me to say that I am relieved that this is over for you? And that I have never liked having you in this position?” he asked, taking them and stowing them in his pouch.

“No, and not half as relieved as I am,” she replied, and unexpectedly kissed him. “I make a good historian. I make a mediocre spy.”

“But if it had not been for you—” He kissed her back, feeling warm and peculiarly protective. It was a very pleasant sensation, now that she was going to be out of danger. He had deliberately not thought about her being in danger while all of this was going on. It wouldn’t have done any good in the first place, and in the second, well, it might have done both of them quite a bit of harm. They were, first and foremost, Heralds. They had duties. Only she could do what she was doing, and they both knew it.

But now he certainly knew what people meant by the phrase, “having your heart hostage to fortune.” It was not a feeling that he had welcomed.

“I still make a mediocre spy,” she replied. “And I hope you never need my peculiar mix of talents again.”

“Oh, I shall—but I hope not as a spy.” He raised an eyebrow and she flushed, but laughed. “Don’t forget to tell the innkeeper before you leave the Bell where Clerk Myste is going, and that she left in a private coach for Three Rivers a candlemark ago.”

“I won’t,” she promised. He gave her a little bow, and slipped out the back way.

The last thing he was going to do, especially after this, was to go directly from the Bell to his destination. Instead, he cut through back alleys and even through a few unfenced yards to get him to the part of town where the tanners and dyers had their workshops, before he finally headed for the inn. He never came at it from the same direction twice if he could help it, and today it would be especially important that there be no association between himself and the Companion’s Bell.

Other than that his “friend” Myste had lived there, of course.

He discharged the first errand by leaving the letter in the room that served as an office, for the business manager was out on some errand or other. But as for the second—the troupe was rehearsing in the stables, and he had heard Norris’ voice when he passed by. Now he went in, and waited patiently until there was a break in the action and Norris left the group that was declaiming at each other to get himself a drink of water from the barrel Alberich stood beside.

“Message for you, sir,” he said, making sure that his voice was pitched low, his tone harsh, rather than high and shrill as the “scholar” had been. He thrust the folded paper at Norris, who took it automatically, but with a look of annoyance.

Still, the man did open it, and read it, his mouth twitching with amusement. Alberich was rather surprised to find himself wanting to punch that mouth and make him eat that amusement. . . .