“And your brother was asleep?”
“He was.” Evin shifted in his chair. “Well, the snoring became loud enough I knew I’d never get to sleep. A while later, I heard someone come into the common room.”
“What about the bell that would alert your brother that a customer had entered his tavern?”
“It didn’t ring, your lordship. For some reason, it didn’t ring. I guess the cord that holds it against the door had broken.”
“Did only one person enter the common room?” Perran asked. A quick glance at the merchant revealed Tolber’s face gone pale as parchment.
“No, your lordship. Another came in directly after the first.”
“And then what happened?”
“The two of them started arguing. They weren’t loud at first, but got that way.”
“Could you hear what they were saying?”
“Not all of it. One man kept saying, ‘Don’t!’ He just kept saying, ‘Don’t, don’t!’ And then . . . .” Evin’s voice trailed off. He swallowed. “I heard the sound of a scuffle. A grunt. Something heavy hit the floor. And the second man to come into the common room said, ‘That’s what you deserve!’ And then, that man walked over to the table where the customer was sleeping, stopped and quickly left the common room.”
“And would you recognize the voice of the person who left? Of the man who kept saying, ‘Don’t?’ ”
Evin squared his shoulders. “I would, your lordship.”
Bred sat transfixed in his chair, hardly believing what he was hearing. For the first time in days, his heart beat faster but this time not in fear.
The judge leaned forward, his face gone perfectly still. Bred could hear the audible breathing of the merchant, who sat as if paralyzed. His daughter held her hands before her mouth, her eyes dark with emotion.
“I want you to tell me whose voices you heard. Who was it said, ‘Don’t, don’t’?”
“Wylden, your lordship.”
“And the one who said, ‘That’s what you deserve’?”
Bred closed his eyes, afraid of what he might hear next.
“It was the merchant, Tolber,” Evin said, his voice clear and steady. “I know his voice well.”
Bred quickly looked from the judge to the merchant. A hot flood of rage ran through his body.
“You!” he shouted. “You lying bastard!
You
killed Wylden and tried to lay the blame on me!”
“Silence!” The judge’s voice rang out in the meeting room. He motioned the two guards forward. “Take the merchant into custody.”
Before the guards could reach the merchant, Tolber bolted from his chair. In an attempt to run to the door at the back of the room, his path took him close to Bred’s chair. Bred saw his chance, stood and threw himself in Tolber’s path. The merchant tripped over Bred’s body, one foot kicking his head. The world spun briefly, but when Bred lurched to his feet, he saw the two guards holding Tolber in a vise-like grip.
Tolber’s daughter sat as if turned into stone. Tears ran down her face and she stared at her father as if she’d never seen him before.
“Why?” she cried in a choked voice. “Why? How could you do this? How
could
you?”
“He was scum!” Tolber shouted, fighting against the grips of the guard who held him. “A nobody! Not worthy of you!”
“Silence!”
Bred cringed before the force of the judge’s voice. His head hurt and he heard the roar of excited voices coming from the rear of the room. Once again, the judge commanded silence and this time received it.
“Bred, step forward.”
For the first time Bred did not see the judge as his own death sentence. He took a step forward and bowed his head, wincing at the stab of growing pain.
“From the evidence gathered in this court, it’s plain to see you’re innocent of the charges brought against you.” The judge looked at the men who had escorted Bred into the meeting room. “You may unchain Bred. He goes free.”
For a brief, heady moment Bred felt he could fly. He closed his eyes, tears threatening to run down his cheeks. Unlocked, the chains fell to the floor. His hands and feet had never seemed so weightless.
“Chain the merchant,” the judge said. “He will be confined in the same room where he falsely imprisoned Bred.”
The merchant struggled against the guards who held him. A wild sense of satisfaction filled Bred’s heart as the men who had led him to the meeting room locked the chains on Tolber’s wrists and feet. He noted they were not gentle.
“Bring the merchant before me,” the judge said, his voice gone very cold.
Tolber struggled again but finally gave in to the fact he couldn’t escape. The two guards led him so he stood facing the judge. Bred glanced sidelong at Evin, but the blind man sat silent, his face bowed.
“Merchant Tolber, I find you guilty of the murder of Wylden. I also find you guilty of bringing a false charge to the attention of the authorities of Berron’s Bend and, consequently, of the justiciary.” Bred had seldom seen a face hard as the judge’s. “You have lied, not only to your fellow neighbors and citizens of this town, but to me. And your lies to me bear a heavier burden. You have lied before Vkandis Sunlord. May he have mercy on your soul!” He gestured. “Take him away.”
As the guards led Tolber toward the rear of the room, the merchant glanced over his shoulder at his daughter.
“Don’t you understand!” he screamed. “I did it for you, Lysa! I did it for you!”
Perran stood silent as the room emptied. A woman came forward and gently led the sobbing Lysa away. The townsfolk seemed stunned by the outcome of the trial. After their initial uproar, they talked quietly to each other. He could only imagine what they were saying. He looked at Bred, who had the expression of someone who had stared death in the face and lived to tell of it. And, in a sense, he had. And Evin . . . the blind man had not risen from his chair. Perran saw Levron standing at the rear of the room and gestured him forward.
“Levron, would you kindly take Evin to wherever he wishes to go?”
Evin stood, holding his cane before him.
“Evin, you’ve more than done your duty here,” Perran said. “You’ve saved Bred from a sentence of death by your ability to recognize voices. You asked for protection but I don’t think you need fear reprisals now. And I imagine Bred has a few kind words for you, too.”
Rubbing his wrists, the big man stepped to Evin’s side. “Words? I don’t have words enough. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you, let me know.”
A brief smile touched Evin’s lips.
“The next time you fall asleep in the tavern,” he said, “try not to snore.”
The Groom’s Price
Michael Z. Williamson and Gail Sanders
He was miserable, absolutely miserable.
:No, you’re not.:
:I am too—how could I be anything else with all of these Outclans strangers staring at me?:
:You only think that you should be miserable; you’re really having an adventure, and you feel guilty that you wanted an adventure when your Clan thought it was your duty that made you go. Besides, if you hadn’t argued so persuasively, we’d still be on your plains.:
Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin was quiet while he thought this over. He found the gait of the Companion to be smooth and enjoyable. So enjoyable that it distracted him from his train of thought for a while.
His Companion was sneaky enough to blend into the herds being kept for youngsters to choose and train. His Companion had disguised herself using the magic that had been forbidden to the Clans until the Mage Storms had swept through the plains. His Companion was slowing her pace and moving up to a palisade partly hidden by trees. With a start, he realized that it was getting dark.
:This is Bolthaven. Tell the gate guards that you’re here to see Master Quenten. If they ask you who you are, tell them. They still remember Kerowyn here.:
From a platform, a sentry demanded, “Name yourself.”
“Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin, for Master Quenten.”
“Hold and wait.”
He waited, nervously, but the gate was opened and another watchman gestured for him to follow. He found himself ushered and escorted through a town that seemed over-busy and overpopulated. No one paid the least bit of attention to him, other than a look of admiration for his mount. He wasn’t sure if the presence of the guard was insulting; he was after all an adult by the Clan’s standards. Surely he could have found the school on his own.
:The guard is both for your protection and for the protection of the townsfolk. Very few people this far out of Valdemar know just what Companions are. With the mage students here, loud noises are common; leading me along is to prevent me from running off if I get startled. I’d prefer it if very few people knew a Companion out of Valdemar was down in the Dhorisha Plains.:
Quenten jerked from his book as his mage barriers flared a warning. After the last time a Guardian Spirit gave him the collywobbles, he’d decided to set up an alarm. While he had plenty of experience thinking on his feet after his time with the Skybolts, he had reached an age where he preferred at least a little notice. After carefully putting down his book, he moved over to the window that overlooked the main gate. Sure enough, there was one of those Guardian Spirits. Perched on the spirit’s back was something unexpected, a Shin’a’in youngster—the leathers were unmistakable.
“May the Blessed Trine curse that woman with children.”
What does Kerowyn want now? At least last time she sent a letter ahead, even if it left out more than it told.
He had decided to meet the Shin’a’in when an apprentice knocked.
“Yes?”
“Sir, a strange child on a white horse says he’s here to see you. One of the gate guards is downstairs with him.”
“I know. I’ll go down and meet him, Cuthbert.” For some reason, using the apprentice’s name seemed to make him more nervous.
The voice that spoke in his head was unexpected, but didn’t scare him.
:That would be because he doesn’t know how much you notice the students. Look, you’ve got a delicate situation here; it’s going to take tact and all of your experience dealing with youngsters. This boy’s considered an adult by his people, if just barely. He’s got a powerful gift that needs to be trained and his people have traditionally shunned magic in general and have little experience with mind magic. I need your help to convince him to go up to Valdemar. He still thinks that I’m his horse:
:Surely being able to talk to him in his mind would have told him otherwise?:
Quenten replied, shocked at holding a conversation this way. He could see why Kerowyn had complained about the Companions’ high-handed attitudes in Valdemar.
:One of his gifts is Animal Mindspeech; he’s used to hearing animals talk in his head. He’s young enough that he hasn’t learned that not everyone does. I’ve just got a larger vocabulary.:
Quenten moved down the stairs with an undertone of caution. He wasn’t young any more, even though being a mage preserved a person. Cuthbert had taken them five at a time with the boundless energy of youth.
He emerged into twilight supplemented by the flickers of watch fires, and saw the boy leaning against the Guardian Spirit.
Companions; they’re called Companions,
he reminded himself.
“Greetings to you and to your Companion. I am Master Quenten, the head of the mage school here.”
“Greetings to you,” the boy replied, his Rethwellan rather accented. “I am Keth’re’son shena Tale’sedrin and this is Yssanda.”
“I bid you come up. Cuthbert, please bring us dinner and ale after you see to Lady Yssanda. Our guest stables should be adequate to your needs, Lady, and I will have a gate to the gardens left open for you. If you will follow me?”
Cuthbert stood waiting respectfully near Yssanda. Before she turned to go, she whickered gently and nudged him towards Quenten.
:Go on, I’ll be with you.:
Cuthbert led her away toward the stables. Obviously setting his chin, Keth’ turned to follow Master Quenten.
The meal was dispatched with the economy of the young and perpetually hungry. While the boy ate sliced meat and cheese quickly but neatly with a belt knife, Quenten mused on what the Companion Yssanda had told him about the situation. It wasn’t enough to make a decision, and with a skill he had developed as head of a mage school he extracted more of the tale from the young man.
It was the tradition of his clan to prove they were ready for adulthood by choosing and training a horse out of the Clan’s herds. Keth’re’son had done well, especially for his age, and his pride in his skill was present in his voice. Then, when he was on his trial journey, the unexpected had happened: his horse had talked back to him. His horse had the nerve to tell him that he had been Chosen and not the other way around. Quenten could hear the bafflement and confusion creep in past the confidence. Then the horse had the nerve to say that he had mind magic and real magic. He was no Shaman. He didn’t want to be a Hawkbrother, and he didn’t want to leave the plains. What would a Shin’a’in do with magic anyway? He was going to train horses and trade them like his father and mother. It wasn’t his fault that his mother’s mother’s mother had been Kethryveris shena Tal’sedrin.
The chance to tell his story paled before the attraction of more food and Keth’ dug into the lentils. There was rabbit as well, with some savory spices. It warmed and renewed him. As he paused, Quenten put forth his proposal.
“I have need of your services. There is an advanced mage student wishing to study other schools. Far Valdemar has many in one town. The student is young and unfamiliar with wilderness. You, however, are an experienced traveler, and have your Companion. You’ll be heading that way already, so I would ask that you act as escort.”
Keth’ didn’t regard himself as an experienced traveler. This was his second journey on his own and he’d gone astray on his first one due to the Companion. The second comment brought him to a halt, spoon almost to his mouth.