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  Thick as these stone walls were, the heat still got into Elcarth's office and both of them were fanning themselves with stray papers before the interview was over. "I think I can place you, now," Elcarth said, by late afternoon. "But I'm going to be putting you in one class you probably aren't going to appreciate."

  "Figuring!" Skif groaned.

  "Actually— no. Not immediately. I'm going to ask Gaytha to teach you how to speak properly." Elcarth sat back and waited for Skif's reaction.

  If he'd expected Skif to show resentment, he got a surprise himself. "Huh.

  I s'pose I can see that— though you shoulda 'eard— heard— me afore—

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  before— Bazie got hold of me." Actually he wasn't at all displeased. You didn't get to be a good thief by being unobservant, and Skif had known very well that his speech patterns would mark him out in any crowd as coming from the "bad part of town" near Exile's Gate. If he was going to consort with the highborn and be taken seriously, he'd better stop dropping his "h's".

  Among other things.

  And he might as well start being careful about how he spoke now. "Is that all you want with me?" he asked, watching every syllable, adding as an afterthought, "sir."

  "For now." Elcarth studied him, and Skif forced himself not to squirm uncomfortably under that unwavering gaze. "I hope eventually you'll feel freer to talk to me, Skif." He looked for a moment as if he was about to say more, then changed his mind. "I believe you have another interview before you—"

  "I—" Skif began, but a tap on the door interrupted him.

  "Come!" called Elcarth, and the door was opened by Herald Alberich.

  Who was, of course, the very last person that Skif wanted to see at this moment, when Elcarth had him feeling so unbalanced and unsettled.

  Alberich looked at him for a moment, but not with the gaze of a hawk with prey in sight, but with a more measuring, even stare. "Come, I have, to take our new one off, Elcarth," he said simply. "Companion's Field, I think. Cooler it will be there."

  "Well, I'm satisfied with him, so he's all yours," Elcarth replied, making Skif wince a little. But Alberich smiled, ever so slightly.

  "Your Cymry is anxious to see the work of the Healer," he said to Skif.

  "And it is that I have evaluation of my own to make. Please— come."

  He reached out and beckoned with one hand, and Skif got reluctantly to his feet.

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  Unlike Teren, Alberich did not seem inclined to lead Skif anywhere.

  Instead, he paced gravely beside Skif, hands clasped behind his back, indicating direction with a jerk of his chin. They left the Herald's Wing by the same door through which they'd first entered the Collegium; Skif recognized the spot immediately. There were plenty of trees here, and Skif was glad of the shade. And glad of the light color of the Trainee uniform.

  He hated to think what it would have been like if the outfit had been black.

  "To the riverbank, I think," Alberich said, with one of those chin jerks.

  "You are puzzled by my accent."

  "Well— aye," Skif admitted. "Never heard naught like it."

  "Nor will you. It is from Karse that I am. A Captain I was, in the service of Vkandis Sunlord." With a glance at Skif's startled face, Alberich then turned his face up toward the cloudless sky. "We have something in common, I think. Or will have. The thief and the traitor— neither to be trusted. Outside the Heraldic Circle, that is."

  Skif swallowed hard. A Karsite. A Karsite officer. From the army of Valdemar's most implacable enemy.

  "But— why—"

  "That is what I— we, for Kantor suggested this— wish to be telling you,"

  Alberich said gravely as they approached the riverbank. His face cleared, then, as they rounded a section of topiary bushes and the river appeared, dazzling in the sun. "Ah, there they are!"

  Two Companions waited for them, and Skif knew Cymry from the other immediately, though how, he couldn't have said. He rushed to greet her, and as he touched her, he felt enveloped in that same wonderful feeling that had been creeping in all afternoon, past doubts, past fears, past every obstacle. He pulled her head down to his chest and ran his hands along her cheeks, while she breathed into his tunic and made little contented sounds.

  He could have stayed that way for the rest of the afternoon….

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  But Alberich cleared his throat politely after a time, and Skif pulled away from her with great reluctance. "A grotto there is, in the riverbank. Cool as a cellar in this heat, and our Companions will enjoy it as well."

  Cymry seemed to know exactly where they were going, so Skif let her lead him. Skif kept one hand on her neck and followed along. She led him down a steeply-sloped, grassy bank to the edge of the river itself, and there, partly out of sight from the lawn above, was a kind of ornamental cave carved into the bank, just as Alberich had said. It was just about tall enough to stand up inside, and held three curved, stone benches at the back. Nicely paved, ceilinged, and walled with flagstone, it was wonderfully cool in there, and the two Companions took up positions just inside, switching their tails idly, as Alberich and Skif took seats on built-in benches at the back.

  This wasn't so bad. Without the Herald looming over him, without actually having to look him in the eyes, Skif felt more comfortable. And in the dim coolness, the Herald seemed a bit more relaxed. Alberich cleared his throat again, as soon as they settled. "So. It is you who have been telling tales for the most of today. Let someone else, for a candlemark."

  "Suits," Skif said shortly, and leaned back into the curved stone bench.

  "Karse," Alberich began, meditatively. "I left my land, and to an extent, my God. They call me traitor there. Think you— it is odd, that I love them both, still?"

  "I dunno," Skif replied honestly. "Dunno much 'bout Gods, an'— truth t'tell, I never thought overmuch 'bout anythin' like a whole country.

  Mostly didn' think 'bout much past m'own streets."

  Alberich nodded a little, his gaze fixed on the river flowing outside the grotto. "No reason there was, why you should."

  Skif shrugged. " Ol' Bazie, he didn' think much of Karse, an' I reckon he thought pretty well of Valdemar, when it comes down t'cases. Least—"

  Skif thought hard for a moment, back to those memories that he hadn't wanted to think about at all for a very long time now. "Huh. When he lost 232

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  'is legs, 'twasn't Karse as saw 'im Healed, nor the Tedrels. 'Twas Valdemar. An' he 'ad some good things t'say 'bout Heralds."

  "Tell me," Alberich urged mildly, and Skif did. It was surprising, when he came to think about it, how much good Bazie had said about Valdemar and its Heralds, especially considering that he'd fought against both.

  Alberich sighed. "I love my land and my God," he said, when Skif was through. "But— both have been— are being— ill served. And that is neither the fault of the land, nor the God."

  He told his story concisely, using as few words as possible, but Skif got a vivid impression of what the younger Alberich must have been like. And when he described being trapped in a building that was deliberately set afire to execute him, Skif found himself transposing that horror to what Bazie and the boys must have felt.

  But there had been no Companion leaping through the flames to save them. There had been no happy ending for Bazie.

  "It was the King's Own and another Herald who came at Kantor's call,"

  Alberich said meditatively. "Which was, for my sake, a good thing. Few would question Talamir's word, fewer dared to do so aloud. So I was Healed, and I learned— yes," he said, after he glanced at Skif. "Oh, smile you may, that into Grays I went, and back to schooling at that age! A sight, I surely was!" He shook his head.

  "Why?" Skif asked. "Why didn' you just tell 'em t' make you a Herald straight off?"

  "And knowing nothing of Heralds or Valdemar? S
tubborn I am often, stupid, never. Much I had to unlearn. More did others have to learn of me.

  Selenay, after Talamir, was my friend and advocate— after them, others.

  More than enough work there was here, to keep me at the Collegium, replacing the aged Weaponsmaster. More than enough reason to stay, that others have me beneath their eye, and so feel control over me in their hands." He smiled sardonically. "Did they know what I learn for the 233

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  Queen here, it is that they would send me out to the farthest Border ere I could take breath thrice."

  Since Skif had seen him at work, he snickered. Alberich bestowed a surprisingly mild glance on him.

  "Now, your turn, it is, for answering questions," he said, and Skif steeled himself. "But first of all, because I would know— why choose to be a thief?"

  An odd question, and as unexpected as one of Alberich's rare smiles. Skif shrugged. " 'Twas that— or slave for m'nuncle Londer. Wasn't much else goin'— an' Bazie was all right."

  His heart contracted at that. All right! What a niggardly thing to say about a man who had been friend, teacher, and in no small part, savior! Yet— if he said more, he put his heart within reach of this Herald, this Alberich, who had already said in so many words that he would use anything to safeguard Valdemar, the Queen, and the Heralds….

  And that's bad, how? whispered that new side of him.

  Shut up! replied the old.

  Skif became aware that a moment of silence had lengthened into something that Alberich might use to put a question. He filled it, quickly.

  "Bazie was pretty good t'us, actually." He paused. "You gonna Truth Spell me again?"

  Alberich shook his head. "What I did was done in need and haste. Much there is I would learn of you, but most of it will wait. And what I would know, I think you will tell freely for the sake of your friends."

  So now, for a second time, Alberich asked questions about Jass and Jass'

  master, this time helping Skif to pry out the least and littlest morsel of information in his memory. This time, though, the questions came thoughtfully, as slow as the heat-heavy air drifting above the riverbank and cloaking it in shimmer, each question considered and answered with 234

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  the same care. Alberich was right about this much. In this case, Alberich's goals and Skif's were one, and the two voices inside him were at peace with one another.

  The light had turned golden as they spoke, and the heat shimmer faded.

  There had been a long time since the last question, and Skif slowly became aware that lunch was wearing thin. As his stomach growled, Alberich glanced over at him again, with a half-smile.

  "You know your way about, I think," the Weaponsmaster said.

  "Tomorrow we will meet, and you will begin your training with me, and with others."

  Then, with no other word of farewell, Alberich rose and stalked out, his Companion falling in at his side like a well-trained drill partner.

  * * *

  "You've been mighty quiet," Skif said to Cymry in the silence. :You were doing perfectly well without me,: she replied, with a saucy switch of her tail. :Well. Here you are, left perfectly alone on the Palace grounds. You can go and do whatever you want; no keeper, no guardian.

  You could go climb to the Palace roof if you wanted to, bearing in mind the Queen's Guard might catch you. Or hasn't that occurred to you yet?: It hadn't, and the revelation hit him like a bucket of cold water.

  "You sure?" he gasped.

  :As sure as I'm standing here.: She switched her tail again, but this time with impatience. :They trust you. Isn't it time you started to trust them?

  Just start, that's all.:

  An odd, heavy feeling came into his throat. Once again, the sense that something portentous had happened, something that he didn't understand, came over him.

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  It was more than uncomfortable, it was unsettling, in the sense of feeling the world he knew suddenly shift into something he no longer recognized.

  "I'm hungry," he announced, hastily shunting it all aside. "An' I reckon I saw some ham an' bacon in that pantry."

  Cymry whickered; it sounded like a chuckle. :I reckon you saw more than that. Go on, come back and meet me here once you've stuffed yourself.: Skif got up, and now that he was moving again, he felt every single bruise and strain from yesterday's ride.

  Was it only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime ago….

  As he got up, he actually staggered a little with stiffness. Cymry moved quickly to give him a shoulder to catch himself on, and after he'd steadied himself, he gave her a self-conscious little kiss on her forehead.

  :Go on,: she said playfully, giving him a shove with her nose. :Just don't eat until you're sick.:

  You didn't become a successful thief without learning the layout of a place on the first time through it. Nevertheless, Skif couldn't help but feeling a little self-conscious as he made his way across the grass, overshadowed by the silent building. And he couldn't help looking for those who might be looking for him. But there were no watchers; Cymry had been right. And when he left the heat of the outdoors for the cool of the great kitchen, he discovered it just as deserted as it had been when Teren brought him.

  He opened the pantry doors and stood amid the plenitude, gazing at the laden shelves and full of indecision. Bacon or ham? White bread, or brown? It was too hot to eat anything cooked-up fresh, besides being far too much trouble, but there was an abundance of good things that could be eaten cold. His mouth watered at the sight of a row of ceramic jars labeled

  "Pikld Beets," but the discovery of a keg of large sour cucumber pickles made him change his mind about the beets. There were so many things here that he had only tasted once or twice, and so many more he'd seen, but never tasted—

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  But although Cymry had warned him playfully about eating himself sick, he was mindful of that very consideration. Too many times he'd seen people in his own streets do just that, when encountering unexpected abundance. After all, none of this was going to disappear tomorrow, or even later tonight (unless he ate it) and he wasn't going to have his access to it removed, either.

  When this Cook gets back t'work— Oh, there was a thought! If there was so much here ready for snacking, what wonderful things must the Cook prepare every day? Visions of the kinds of things he'd seen in the best inns passed through his mind— minced-meat pasties, stews with thick, rich gravy, egg pie and oh, the sweets….

  Eventually he made his selections, and put a plate together. He ate neatly and with great enjoyment, savoring every bite, finishing with a tart apple and a piece of sharp cheese. Then, as he had when he had eaten earlier with Teren, he cleaned up after himself and put everything away.

  A glance through the windows above the great sink as he was washing up showed him that the sky had gone to red as the sun set. There would be plenty of time to spend with Cymry, and at that moment, there was nothing in the world that he would rather have been doing.

  Back up and out he went, under a sky filled with red-edged, purple clouds, passing trees just beginning to whisper in an evening breeze, through the quietude that seemed so strange to him after the constant noise of the city proper. Cymry waited for him where he had last seen her, watching the sun set and turn the river to a flat ribbon of fire.

  He put an arm over her shoulder, and they watched it together. How many times had he watched the sun rise or set above the roofs of the city? Too many to count, certainly, but he'd never had as much time as he would have liked to enjoy the sight, even when it was a truly glorious one like tonight.

  Come to that, there had never been anyone with him who understood that it was a glorious sight until tonight. Bazie would have— but Bazie had 237

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  spent most of his time in the cellar room, and there was never the time or leisure for his boys to bring him up for a sunset.
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br />   They stood together until the last vestige of rose faded from the clouds, and only then did they realize that they were not alone.

  Behind them were another Herald and Companion, who must have come up behind them so quietly that not even Skif's instincts were alerted— and that took some skill.

  Skif didn't even know they were there until Cymry reacted, with a sudden glance over her shoulder, a start and a little jump.

  Then he looked behind, and saw the strangers.

  He turned quickly, sure that they were somewhere they shouldn't have been, but the tall, elderly man standing with one arm around his Companion's shoulders (even as Skif had stood with Cymry) smiled and forestalled any apology.

  "I beg your pardon, youngling, for startling you," the man said, his voice surprisingly deep for one as thin as he was. "We often come here to admire the sunset, and didn't see any reason to disturb your enjoyment.

  Rolan tells me that you are Skif and Cymry."

  The man's uniform was a touch above the ones that Herald Teren and Dean Elcarth had worn; there was a lot of silver embroidery on the white deerskin tunic, and Skif would have been willing to bet anything he had that the trews and shirt this Herald wore were silk.

  The Companion was something special as well; he was just a little glossier, just a little taller, and had just a touch more of an indefinable dignity than any of the others Skif had seen thus far did.

  :This is the Queen's Own Herald Talamir and Rolan, the Grove-Born,: Cymry said hastily in his mind, in a tone that told Skif (even though he had no idea what the titles meant) that these two were somehow very, very special, even by the standards of Heralds.

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  "Yessir, Herald Talamir," Skif said, with an awkward bob of his head. It was a very odd thing. He had seen any number of highborn, and never felt any reason to respect them. He did respect the Heralds he'd met so far—but this man, without doing more than simply stand there, somehow commanded respect. But at the same time, there was an aura of what Beel might have called mortality and what others might have called fey that hung about him.