Take a Thief Page 22

  And that was if he was lucky. He'd seen someone who'd been thrown from a galloping horse, once. The poor fool had his back broken. Healers could fix that, he'd been told, if the Healer got to you quickly enough, if you were important enough to see a Healer. He'd seen countless people thrown from runaway wagons, and they always ended up with broken arms and legs. That was bad enough.

  She was at the gallop, head down, charging along as if she'd gone mad, pounding down the paved streets, the occasional bystander gawking at them as they tore past. No one tried to stop the runaway horse, and all that Skif could do was hang on tight and trust to the fact that as hot as it was, she'd tire soon. She'd have to tire soon. She was only a horse, just a fancy horse, she couldn't run forever—

  He closed his eyes and crouched over the saddle, gripping her with his thighs and holding onto the pommel of the saddle with all his might. Her mane whipped at his face, it was like being beaten with a fly whisk, and he gasped with every driving blow of her hooves that drove the pommel into his gut. She'd be slowing any moment now.

  Any moment now…

  Oh, please—

  He cracked his eye open, and closed it again.

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  She wasn't slowing. If anything, she was running faster. People, shops, pavement blurred past so fast he was getting sick. His eyes watered as some of her mane lashed across them.

  How was that possible?

  Hellfires! I stole a racehorse! Of all the stupid, idiot things to have done—

  He opened his eyes again, just in time to see a wagon pull across the street in front of them and stop.

  She's got to stop now—

  She raised her head a little, and her ears cocked forward.

  She's not gonna stop!

  The driver stared at them, then abruptly dove off the seat. The mare increased her pace; he felt her muscles bunch up under his legs.

  She's gonna jump it!

  She shoved off, her forequarters rising; he clawed desperately at the saddle as his weight shifted backward. He screamed in terror, knowing he was going to fall, then the wagonbed was underneath him—

  She landed; he was flung forward, his nose and right eye slamming into her neck. He saw stars, and his head exploded with pain. Somehow, some way, he managed to hang on. The thought of falling off terrified him more than staying on.

  She didn't even break stride as she continued her run and careened around a corner; sweat flew off her, and she didn't even seem to notice. She was off around another corner, pounding through a half-empty market, then toward the last of the city walls.

  No—

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  But she wasn't listening to what he wanted.

  She plunged into the tunnel beneath the walls, and for a moment her hooves echoed in the darkness, sounding like an entire herd of horses was in here with him.

  There were Guards on the wall! Surely, surely they would stop her— Then she was out, with no sign of a Guardsman.

  Skif dared another glance, out of the eye that wasn't swelling. Through his tears all he could see was a road stretching ahead of them, the road leading away from Haven. He couldn't even tell which road; all he knew for certain was that they were flying down a roadway, and people were scattering out of their way, shouting curses after them.

  The mare wove her way in and out of the traffic with the agility of a dancer. He actually felt the touch on his ankle as they brushed by other riders, the whiplike cut of a horse's tail as it shied out of the way. And somehow, she was getting faster.

  He knew if he tried to throw himself off now, he'd die. It was just that simple. No one, not even an experienced rider, could slip off a horse at speeds like this and live. He wouldn't just break bones, he'd break his neck or his skull and die instantly. All he could do was what he had been doing; hang on, try not to get thrown, and hope that when she stopped, he'd be able to get off of her without her killing him.

  He gritted his teeth together, hissing with the pain of his eye and nose, so full of fear there was no room in his head for anything else.

  The sounds of shouting and cursing were gone. He dared another glance.

  There were no more buildings beside the road now, nothing but fields with tiny farmhouses off in the distance. The road still had plenty of traffic, though, and the mare wove her way in and out of it with a nonchalance that made the hair on the back of his head stand up. People weren't shouting and cursing at them because they were too busy trying to get out of the way.

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  He had never been so terrified in his entire life.

  He squeezed his eyes tight shut again, and for the first time in his life, began to pray.

  * * *

  Skif was limp with exhaustion, dripping with sweat and aching so much that he wasn't sure he even cared what happened to him now. He also had no idea where he was. The mare had gotten off the main road and was still running, though not at the headlong pace she'd held through the city. This was a normal gallop— if anything this mare did was normal!

  This was a country road, rutted dirt, with trees on both sides that met over his head, forming a tunnel of green. If his eye and nose hadn't hurt so much— and if he hadn't been so terrified— he'd never been anywhere like this before in his life.

  He had no idea how far they were from Haven. A long way; that was about all he could tell. So in addition to the rest of it, he was hopelessly lost, and completely outside familiar territory.

  And the sun was setting.

  He wanted to cry.

  He did cry; tears leaking silently out from the corners of his eyes. His nose felt as if it was the size of a cabbage, and it throbbed.

  The mare suddenly changed direction again, darting into a mere break in the trees, down a path so seldom used that there weren't even any cart tracks in it. She slowed again, to a trot.

  Now he could hear what was going on around him; birds, the wind in the trees, the dull thud of the mare's hooves on the turf. So this was what people meant by "peaceful countryside"? Well, they could have it. He'd have given an arm for his loft room right now.

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  He could probably have gotten off her back at this point— but for what?

  He didn't even know where he was! Here they were in the middle of a complete wilderness, with no shelter, nothing to eat, and no people, so where would he go? Somehow he had to convince this devil beast to get him back home—

  Now she slowed to a walk, and all he could do was slump over her neck, as the light coming through the trees took on an amber cast. She was sweating, but no more than one of the horses he was familiar would have been after a moderately hard job. She should have been foaming with sweat. Foaming? She should be collapsed on the ground by now!

  Head bobbing with each step, she ambled down the path, and then, with no more warning than when she'd started this run, she stopped.

  Skif looked up through eyes blurring with exhaustion and tears of frustration and fear.

  Now what?

  They stood in a tiny clearing, in front of the smallest building he had ever seen. They were completely surrounded by trees, and the only other object in the clearing was a pump next to the building with a big stone trough beneath it. He couldn't hear anything but birds and the wind. If there were any humans anywhere around, there was no sign of them. For the first time in his life, Skif was completely alone.

  He'd have given anything to see a single human being. Even a Watchman.

  If the Watch had showed up, he'd have flung himself into their arms and begged them to take him to gaol.

  Every muscle, every bone, every inch of Skif's body was in pain. His nose and eye hurt worst, but everything hurt. He sat in the saddle, blinking, his bad eye watering, and choked back a sob. Then he slowly pried his fingers, one at a time, away from the pommel of the saddle.

  He looked down at the ground, which seemed furlongs away, an
d realized that he couldn't dismount.

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  It wasn't that he didn't want to, it was that he couldn't. He couldn't make his cramped legs move. And even if he could, he was afraid to fall.

  Then the mare solved his problem by abruptly shying sideways.

  He didn't so much slide off the saddle as it was that the horse and her saddle slid out from underneath him. He made a grab for the pommel again, but it was too late.

  He tumbled to the ground and just barely managed to catch himself so that he landed on his rump instead of his face, in a huge pile of drifted leaves.

  It hurt. Not as badly as, say, hitting hard pavement would have, but it still hurt.

  And it knocked what was left of his breath out of him for a moment and made him see stars again.

  When his eyes cleared, he looked around. He sat in the middle of the pile of old, damp leaves, dazed and bewildered at finding himself on the ground again. "Ow," he said, after a moment of consideration.

  The mare turned, stepping lightly and carefully, and shoved him with her nose in the middle of his chest.

  He shoved back, finally roused to some sensation other than confusion.

  "You get away from me, you!" he said angrily. " 'f it wasn't for you, I—"

  She shoved at him again, and without meaning to, he looked straight into her eyes. They were blue, and deep as the sky, and he fell into them.

  :Hello, Skif,: he heard, from somewhere far, far away. :My name is Cymry, and I Choose you.:

  And he dropped into a place where he would never be alone or friendless again.

  * * *

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  When he came back to himself, the first thing he did was stagger to his feet and back away from the Companion. Never mind the wonderful dream he'd been in— it was a dream. It couldn't be real. Something was terribly wrong.

  His Companion Cymry looked at him and he felt her amusement.

  His Companion. And that was just not possible.

  "Are you outa your mind? " he croaked, staring at her.

  :No,: she said, and shook her head. :I Choose you. You're a Herald— well, you will be after you go through the Collegium and get your Whites. Right now, you're just a Trainee.:

  "Like hell!" he retorted feelingly. "You are crazy! Or— I am—" It occurred to him then that all this might just be some horrible dream.

  Maybe when he'd jumped onto the horse, it had thrown him, and he was lying on his back in that park, knocked out cold and hallucinating. Maybe he hadn't even seen the horse, the heat had knocked him over and he was raving. None of this was happening— that must be it—

  :Don't be stupid,: Cymry replied, shoving at him with her nose. :Be sensible! Do you ever have black eyes and a broken nose in a dream? It's not a dream, you're not unconscious, and you are Chosen. And you're going to be a Herald.:

  "I don't bloody well think so!" he said, trying to back further away from her and coming up against the wall of the little building. "If you think I am, you're crazy. Don' you know what I am? "

  How could this be happening? He didn't want to be a Herald! Oh, even Bazie had spoken about them with admiration, but no Heralds were ever plucked out of a gutter, not even in a tale!

  :Of course I do,: she replied calmly. :You're a thief. A rather good one for your age, too—:

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  "Well, then I can't be a Herald, can I?" He groped for words to try and convince her how mad, how impossible this was. Even though, deep inside, something cried out that he didn't want it to be impossible.

  "Heralds are— well, they're all noble an' highborn—"

  She snorted with amusement at his ignorance. :No they aren't. Not more than a quarter of them at most, anyway. Heralds are just ordinary people; farmers, craftsmen, fisherfolk— ordinary people.:

  "Well, they're heroes—"

  :And none of them started out that way,: she countered. : Most of them started out as ordinary younglings, being Chosen by a Companion. There wasn't anything special about them until then— not visibly, anyway.:

  "They're good! "

  She considered that for a moment, head to one side. :That rather depends on your definition of "good," actually. Granted, they are supposed to uphold the law,: she continued thoughtfully, :But in the course of their duties, plenty of them break the law as much as they uphold it, if you want to be technical about it.:

  "But— but—" he spluttered, as the last light pierced through the tree trunks and turned everything a rosy red, including Cymry. "But— Heralds are— they do—"

  :Heralds are what they have to be. They do what the Queen and the country need,: Cymry said, supremely calm and confident. :We Choose those who are best suited to do those things and supply those needs. And what makes you think that the Queen and country might not need the skills of a thief?:

  Well, there was just no possible answer to that, and even though his mouth opened and closed several times, he couldn't make any sounds come out of it.

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  She paced close to him, and once again he was caught— though not nearly so deeply— in those sparkling sapphire eyes. :Now look— I'm tired and hungry and sweaty. So are you.:

  "But—" They were in the middle of nowhere! Where was he—? How was he—?

  :This is a Way Station, and as a Herald Trainee— don't argue! —you're entitled to anything in it.: She whickered softly. :I promise, there's food and bedding and just about anything you might need in there. There's also a bucket of water inside to prime the pump with. I suggest that before it gets too horribly dark, you pump up some water, clean both of us up, and get us both some of the food that's waiting. You are hungry, aren't you?

  You can eat and rest here for the night, and we can talk about all of this.: She cocked both of her ears at him, and added, :And while you're at it, it wouldn't hurt to make a poultice for that black eye you're getting. It's becoming rather spectacular.:

  * * *

  Herald Alberich, Weaponsmaster to Heralds' Collegium and sometime intelligence agent for Queen Selenay, put down the brush he'd been using on Kantor's mane and stared at his Companion in complete and utter shock. Companions didn't lie— but what Kantor had just told him was impossible.

  "You must be joking!" he said aloud, in his native tongue.

  Kantor turned his head to look at his Chosen. :As you well know,: he said, with mock solemnity, :I have no sense of humor.:

  "In a pig's eye," Alberich muttered, thinking of all of the tricks his Companion had authored over the years— including the one of smuggling himself past the Karsite Border to Choose and abduct one Captain Alberich of the Karsite Army.

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  :But I assure you, I am not joking. Cymry has managed to Choose that young scamp you've caught eavesdropping on you over the past couple of months. He is a thief, and she'll probably be delivering him to the Collegium some time tomorrow. So I suggest you prepare your fellow Heralds. He promises to make things interesting around here.: Kantor arched his neck. :But before you do that, you might take that brush along my crest; it still itches.:

  "What in the name of Vkandis Sunlord are we supposed to do with a thief?" Alberich demanded, not obliging Kantor with the brush.

  :What you always do with the newly Chosen. You'll train him, of course.: Kantor turned his head again and regarded his Chosen with a very blue eye. :Hasn't it occurred to you that a skilled thief would be extremely useful in the current situation that you and the Queen have found yourselves in? Scratch a thief, you'll find a spy. Set a thief to take a thief, and you have been losing state secrets.:

  "Well—"

  :Of course it has. All you have to do is appeal to the lad's better instincts and bring them to the fore. I assure you, he has plenty of better instincts.

  After all, he's been Chosen, and we don't make mistakes about the characters of those we Choose. Do we?: Kant
or didn't have any eyebrows to arch, but the sidelong look he bestowed on Alberich was certainly very similar.

  "Well—"

  :So there you are. About that brush in your hand—: Belatedly, Alberich brought the brush up and began vigorously using it along Kantor's crest. The Companion sighed in blissful pleasure, and closed his eyes.

  And Alberich began to consider just how he was going to break the news about this newest trainee to Dean Elcarth and the rest.

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  Assuming, of course, they weren't already having similar conversations with their Companions.

  * * *

  It was a good thing that Bazie had taught him how to cook. Yes, there was food here, but it wasn't the sort of thing the ordinary city-bred boy would have recognized as such. :I'd have told you what to do,: Cymry said, her head sticking in the door, watching him, as he baked currant-filled oatcakes on a stone on the hearth.

  He'd also put together a nice bean soup from the dried beans and spices he'd found, but he didn't think it would be done any time soon, and he was hungry now. :I wouldn't let you starve. I'm perfectly capable of telling you how to use just about anything in this Way Station.:

  "Somehow I ain't s'prised," he replied, turning the cakes deftly once one side was brown. "Is there anything ye can't do?"

  :I'm a bit handicapped by the lack of hands,: she admitted cheerfully.

  She— and he— were both much cleaner at this point. Beside the pump, there had been a generous trough, easily filled and easily emptied. After she'd drunk her fill, and he had washed and brushed her down as she asked, he'd had a bath in it. Then he emptied it out and refilled it for her drinking. The cold bath had felt wonderful; it was the first time in a week that he'd been able to cool down. He'd also washed up his clothing; it was hanging on a bush just outside. It was a lot more comfortable to sit around in his singlet, since there wasn't anyone but Cymry to see him anyway.