Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar v(-105 Read online

  Under The Vale And Other Tales Of Valdemar

  ( Valdemar (11) - 105 )

  Mercedes Lackey

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - The Simple Gifts - Mercedes Lackey

  Chapter 2 - Catch Fire, Draw Flame - Rosemary Edghill and Denise McCune

  Chapter 3 - In an Instant - Elizabeth A. Vaughan

  Chapter 4 - A Healer’s Work - Daniel Shull

  Chapter 5 - A Leash of Greyhounds - Elisabeth Waters

  Chapter 6 - Warp and Weft - Kristin Schwengel

  Chapter 7 - Discordance - Jennifer Brozek

  Chapter 8 - Slow and Steady - Brenda Cooper

  Chapter 9 - Sight and Sound - Stephanie D. Shaver

  Chapter 10 - The Bride’s Task - Michael Z. Williamson and Gail L. Sanders

  Chapter 11 - Fog of War - Ben Ohlander

  Chapter 12 - Heart’s Peril - Kate Paulk

  Chapter 13 - Heart’s Place - Sarah A. Hoyt

  Chapter 14 - Family Matters - Tanya Huff

  Chapter 15 - The Watchman’s Ball - Fiona Patton

  Chapter 16 - Judgment Day - Nancy Asire

  Chapter 17 - Under the Vale - Larry Dixon

  Under the Vale & Other Tales of Valdemar

  Mercedes Lackey

  Chapter 1 - The Simple Gifts - Mercedes Lackey

  The last thing I expected when I woke up that morning was to find myself running for my life with my clothing in one hand and the other hand holding a sheet rather insecurely about my impressive torso.

  Wait, let me back that up a bit.

  First, please understand that I have no illusions about myself. I know what my talents are: charm, rugged good looks, wit, a great voice, and an instinct for how to make a lady very happy. I know what my flaws are: the desire to do as little actual work as possible, coupled with a taste for all the finer things in life, and a tendency to stretch the truth paper-thin. These two things make me the ideal candidate for no actual job, but they make me very good at being company for females (face it ladies, you really do not want to know that your butt looks like the rear end of a brood mare in “this dress”).

  Yes. Alas, I am a man-whore.

  Now that we have the technicalities out of the way, let me add that I specialize in ladies of a certain . . . age. Those who (so they tell me, and so I will fervently believe as long as I am with them) are underappreciated by the husbands. Because, oh yes, I only specialize in married ladies. That way if anything happens, they have a husband to deal with the consequences. And most of them actually are underappreciated. In the class I deal with exclusively, those husbands will have gone out and gotten themselves one or more pretty, young mistresses, so why, I ask you, is the sauce for the gander not just as appropriate for the goose?

  I had somewhat worn out my welcome in the western part of Hardorn, so I had crossed into the eastern part of Valdemar, a country with which I was just marginally familiar. Hardorn was rather more to my liking: lots of rich merchant wives, lots of rich minor nobility, lots of husbands who were always somewhere else. However, I’d temporarily run out of the former, and since I was ill-equipped to fend for myself for very long, I took the very nice farewell present from my last “friend” and got a ride with her cousin’s trade caravan west. Her cousin was a widow, and I made an exception to my rule of wives only, and we passed the time pleasantly enough in her plush little wagon.

  They left me in a little town called Winefold, which produced, strangely enough, not wine but a pungent little berry that they liked to use in Hardorn to flavor alcohol. Geniver, it was called, and collecting the harvested and dried berries there was the end of the road for the caravan. So I bid the immensely grateful (have I mentioned that ladies of a certain age are always enthusiastically grateful?) widow a fond and somewhat teary farewell, got the best room in the inn (for now, I didn’t intend to be paying for it long) and set about looking over my prospects.

  They seemed rosy. A lady of the correct age and more than correct income, spouse away and (supposedly) unappreciative, and charms that, while a bit on the weathered side, were still, well, charming. And besides, candlelight is always flattering. Like me. The campaign was easy enough, pity on the poor stranger with only a few halting phrases of Valdemaran in the marketplace, a meal or two together at the inn, a meal or two together at her manse, a brief overnight trial of my paces, certain key phrases exchanged and understood, and there you go. I was quite satisfied with the results of the evening and was looking forward to leaving my room at the inn and setting up in a guest room as a “cousin”—in fact, I was mulling over just those arrangements while idly tracing circles on the bare shoulder next to mine, when my musings were rudely interrupted by five men bursting into the bedroom with drawn swords and daggers. One of them was richly attired, also of a certain age (but of a dismayingly athletic build) with the outraged expression on his face that told me he was either a husband or a brother.

  Now, this sort of thing happens in bardic songs all the time; the sort with seven hundred verses to them. There’re about two hundred to get to the bedroom, and then comes the part where the outraged husband says, “Get up, it will never be said I slew a sleeping man,” allows the subject of the song to get up (and presumably get dressed, though that never seems to be mentioned no matter how many verses there are), arm himself, and even strike the first blow—presumably so the spouse can claim self-defense. This usually takes about another hundred verses. The rest of the song describes how the subject is cut down, mangled, dismembered, eviscerated, hung up for all to see, has various bits pecked out by crows while women lament, and finally is buried beneath a willow, which weeps for him eternally.

  I was not going to be around for those several hundred verses, thank you. Especially not the killing and dismembering part.

  Out of careful habit and no few close calls, I keep all my clothing right at hand in an easy-to carry bundle when I go to bed with a lady. So as the outraged gentleman opened his mouth, I was already halfway out the window, clothing in one hand, sheet held around me as best I could.

  The advantage of going out a window is that your pursuers, if there are more than one, always manage to get themselves jammed up trying to follow you. By the time they sort themselves out, you’ve got a lead on them.

  Small problem being in a little town, however: They were going to know where to find me, or rather, my belongings. Which meant I had to get there before they did. Fortunately it was early enough (good lord, not even dawn, what kind of uncivilized barbarians were these?) that I didn’t attract too much attention sprinting through the streets in nothing but a sheet. Bad idea going in through the door, but the inn building was a single, sprawling story, all at ground level. I had left my shutters unlatched but closed—I had all my money with me, and in a town this small, stealing my clothing and other gear would be pretty foolhardy, since it would be immediately recognizable. I’d nipped in, grabbed my gear, pulled on my pants and boots, and nipped out again by the time they came roaring up to the door, which the innkeeper’s servant was only just opening for the day.

  I saw all this from my vantage point hiding in the thatch of a roof across the street.

  And that was where I stayed, figuring I would wait until the fuss died down, then get a ride out with a farmer or something.

  But the fuss didn’t die down. This fellow was persistent! First he made the innkeeper turn out my room to prove I wasn’t in it. Then he made the innkeeper turn out all the vacant rooms to prove I wasn’t hiding in them. Then he made the innkeeper turn out all the other guests to prove I wasn’t with one of them! Then he ransacked the stable. Then he and his four bully
boys began searching the rest of the town.

  Fortunately none of them thought to look up in the thatch of roofs. I suppose they figured that someone of my sort wouldn’t know how to climb. Silly fellows. Windows aren’t always on the ground floor.

  However, this left me with a real problem. By the time they were done, the entire town would know about me, and I hadn’t been here long enough to round up any allies. Which meant not only could I not find a real place to hide out, but it was going to be hard to find a way out of town.

  Which was when I saw it: the army-supply wagon train.

  We’d passed this thing on our way in, and my hostess had told me what it was, because I honestly had never seen anything like it in my life. The main roads here in Valdemar all had this groove running down the middle, which I had assumed (wrongly) was some sort of gutter. In fact, it was a slot for a guiding wheel for a peculiar sort of thing that she called a “wagon train”—as in, “trailing along behind.” These people didn’t have a lot of bandits (if any!) on their main roads, so they didn’t need a lot of guards on the wagons that carried common supplies. Which meant they really only needed people to drive and care for the dray animals. And if they could hitch a lot of wagons together, they didn’t need as many of them. The problem with that was that pulling a lot of wagons was difficult; they tended to stray off the road. But not if you had a guide-wheel in the center of each that dropped down into that groove down the middle . . .

  Ingenious, really.

  So there it was, pulling through town. Twenty mules at the front, a couple of drivers, fifteen wagons, each carrying two tons. The last wagon in the string carried the supplies for the men and the mules and had two spare mules tied to the back. They wouldn’t stop in town; they’d stop once at midday to water the animals and again at night. Because they wouldn’t stop in town, and because they belonged to the army (called the “Guard” here), no one would bother searching these wagons. Ideal!

  I watched for my opportunity, and as soon as the street was clear, I was down off that roof and in under the canvas flap at the rear of one of the middle wagons. A quick survey of the tightly packed interior showed me the only way to get to the front of the wagon was over the top of the crates. I was hoping that since all the wagons looked alike (that’s an army for you), there would be a space at the front with a driver’s area that you couldn’t actually pack goods into.

  I was right—though let me tell you, it was a tight squeeze to get in there under the canvas roof, and I had to be careful and inch my way along so no one would notice a moving bulge. There was a driver’s bench all right, with the canvas stretched down tight across the front of the wagon, giving me just enough room to settle. No one would look up here; if anyone did inspect this thing, they’d look at the back at most. I made myself comfortable with my pack and my stolen sheet, waited until we were well clear of town, just in case, and then resumed my interrupted sleep.

  I woke again when they stopped the mules at noon for watering. When the voices were distant, I took a quick look at the crates that surrounded me and could hardly believe my luck when I saw they were all labeled “field rations.” At least I wasn’t going to starve! I spent the rest of the afternoon slowly and carefully prying the side off one of the crates. Sure enough, it was packed full of bars of something covered in what felt like wax. When I got a bar out, I saw that it actually was wax, the sort some cheeses are coated in. It peeled right off with the help of my knife, and the bar proved to be dried fruit and meat pounded together, just about as hard as ironwood. I spent the rest of the afternoon whittling slivers off and eating them. I’d had worse. I got thirsty; I made up for it by sucking on a few peppermints that I keep to make sure I have pleasant breath. I was lucky that it didn’t get too hot, and I could manage to hold off thirst for a while, but I was looking forward to getting out and finally getting a drink, let me tell you. I’d have to find something to hold water, though, because the only time I’d be able to get any would be late at night when the drovers slept.

  Maybe I could find something in the supply wagon.

  It took a lot of patience to just sit there, getting thirstier and thirstier, and it was worse when we finally stopped for the night. But finally the voices at the fire whose glow I could see through the canvas side of the tent ebbed into silence. I got out, and to make a long story short, I did find a bucket I didn’t think anyone would miss, since it was buried in the back of the supply wagon. That was when I realized that all they did was unhitch the teams and picket them; they left the wagons in the road all night. I suppose it didn’t matter; it wasn’t as if anyone was going to run into them in the dark.

  Days went by that way, which I whiled away by getting into the wagon one-off from the front and listening to the drovers talk. I was going to need a lot of practice in understanding Valdemaran, of which I had barely a grasp. I did get better over time, and I was anticipating getting out in a larger town—until I managed to puzzle out from something that they were saying that they were about to head deep into the wilderness.

  Wilderness was not where I wanted to go. Oh, no. I don’t do well in wilderness. I’m not a wilderness sort of fellow. That was when I figured it was time for me to steal whatever I was going to need for (what I thought would be) a day or two until I found a farm and a way on to civilization. So once the drovers settled down for the night and snores told me that a tempest wouldn’t wake them, I did just that. I loaded my pack with those ration bars, grabbed a wineskin off the back of the supply wagon, plus a tinderbox, and followed the road until it was dawn. Then I got off the road and hid for a while, just in case they actually realized something was missing and backtracked. By midmorning, though, I figured I was safe and got back onto the road.

  I didn’t want to stay on it for too long, though, because it would only take me farther into trouble. So the first time I saw another road—this one plain dirt, with some grass growing on it, and no groove—I took it. Roads always go somewhere, right? I figured this one would lead me to a farm or, better still, a village.

  Only . . . it didn’t.

  By midafternoon, I knew I was going to have to sleep outdoors, and I knew enough to know I needed to find some water too. So I did . . . and I did . . . I’ve mentioned I’m not a wilderness sort of fellow, right? It was the worst night of my life. I mean, the worst. I tried making a sort of bed out of leaves, only the leaves were home to some sort of ants, and they got into my clothing and bit the hell out of me. So I gave up and tried to sleep on bare dirt, but that sucked all the heat out of my body, and I spent most of the night shivering. The fire I made smoked, and I kept hearing things out in the woods that sounded big. Really big. Bears? Wolves? Whatever it was kept prowling around and around my campsite. And I did tell you I’m not a fighting sort of fellow, right?

  I finally did get to sleep around about dawn. I’m not sure what exactly woke me up, but when I did wake up, all at once, I could hardly believe my luck. Because standing right in front of me, on the other side of my fire, was a fantastic-looking white horse.

  Now there was my way out of here! Provided I could catch it. I knew how to ride bareback; it’s one of those things that’s useful to know in case your lady wants to get a romantic ride along a beach or a river and maybe swim with the horses. You don’t want a saddle on them if you do that--it gets wet, and you make the grooms angry at you when you bring the horses back because they are the ones that have to make sure everything dries out right.

  I was still fully dressed, of course, so I got up slowly and carefully and felt in my pack for my silk rope. Yes, silk rope. It’s something I have with me in case the lady—never mind. Let’s just say it comes in useful when ladies want something to . . . ah . . . keep me from going anywhere. It fell right into my hand. I could hardly believe my luck.

  The horse stared at me. I made soothing sounds at it and straightened up, rope held behind my back. It didn’t move. I walked toward it, slowly and casually. Behind my back, I got the rope into a l
oop to throw around its neck. The closer I could get to it, the better.

  It let me just walk up to it and drop the loop around its neck.

  And that was when it suddenly snaked out its neck, grabbed the back of my tunic in strong, white teeth, and shook me like a dog shakes a rag.

  :What the hell do you think you’re doing?: said a voice in my head.

  Something else came crunching through the underbrush, and as the horse dropped me at its feet and, with a contemptuous toss of its head, shook off the rope, another big white horse emerged from between two bushes.

  I looked wildly around for the owner of the voice.

  :He’s all we’ve got, Destin,: said another voice. :We missed the wagon train, we can’t get her to them, and they can’t backtrack. He’ll have to do. I just wanted to make sure he knew we were nothing to fool about with.:

  The new horse snorted with contempt and stamped a foot. :He looks about as useful as teats on a boar.:

  I suddenly realized that there was no one else around but the two horses, I knew I wasn’t asleep or hallucinating, so the voices had to be coming—from them—

  :Of course the voices are coming from us, you moron,: said the second voice, as the second horse put his face down to mine and let those blue eyes burn contempt at me. :We’re Companions, and unfortunately we don’t have hands, but you do, so you’re going to help us.:

  “I’m—wait, what now?” I was beginning to think I’d fallen and hit my head, that I’d been poisoned by something that had bitten me in the night or had come down with a fever, and I was hallucinating. I vaguely recalled something about white horses in Valdemar, but I hadn’t paid much attention at the time. I never expected to be here, after all. It didn’t make any sense to come here, where I didn’t know the language or the laws, or, well, anything else. What was it about white horses?

  :You. Up. On your feet. You’re coming with us.: That was the second voice in my head, the one belonging to the horse whose face was right in mine. :What we’re doing is Mindspeaking. We’re Companions. We are the equivalent of Constables. Or City Guards, except we can enforce law in the entire country.: