Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

The youth pelted down the street, but Hektor was one of the fastest runners in the Watch, and he gained on him quickly. Usually more than happy to partake in the hue and cry, the people made room for them, shouting encouragement. One single dive was all it took, and Hektor brought the youth down hard, knocking the breath out of him as they hit the cobblestones.

The crowd cheered. For a moment Hektor smiled; then as someone shouted “Iron Street!” his expression dropped to a frown once again.

By the time he returned, dragging the youth by the collar, Kiel had taken his accomplice into custody, and Aiden had arrived on the scene, trying to placate the old man, who was upbraiding him in an accent that showed plainly that he was not from the Iron Street area. A crowd of people had already begun to gather in response to the sound of indignant scolding.

“I am not inebriated, Corporal,” the old man now snapped, weaving slightly.

“No, sir, of course not, sir,” Aiden answered with exaggerated politeness, casting a jaundiced eye across the crowd as this statement provoked an murmur of laughter.

“And I do not require a Healer,” the old man continued. “I’m right as rain.”

“Yes, sir.” Aiden eyed the blood trickling down from an abrasion just visible above the old man’s hairline. “Pardon the liberty, sir, but rain isn’t always right.”

The old man drew himself up to glare at him through a pair of rheumy blue eyes. “And when isn’t it right, pray tell?” he demanded.

“When there’s too much of it, sir.” Aiden offered him his handkerchief with a neutral expression, and the old man took it in grumbling acceptance, pressing it against his forehead with an involuntary hiss of pain.

“At least let one of us see you home, sir,” Aiden offered. “The night comes on fast this time of year, and you’ll want to be indoors afore the sun goes down.”

His unspoken words hung between them, but the old man cast him a shrewd glance. “You mean you want me off your streets and safely home before the end of your shift, Corporal,” he accused.

“As you say, sir.” Aiden gestured at Hektor. “Watchman, see the gentleman home,” he ordered, piling the old man’s parcels into his younger brother’s arms until he could barely see over them.

As the crowd began to laugh, Hektor sighed. “Yes, Corporal.”

Leaning heavily on his shoulder, the old man directed them toward an area much more affluent than the ones Hektor was used to. It was slow going, but eventually they fetched up before a sturdy, well-maintained house with a small front garden planted with flowers. The old man fished a key from his voluminous cloak and, opening the door, gestured Hektor inside.

“Just set the parcels on the table there by the largest of the cages.”

Hektor did as directed, then stared about in undisguised awe. The front room was huge, more than twice the size of his own, and was crowded with large, ornate birdcages housing tiny yellow and brown birds that filled the room with music. Floor-to-ceiling book-cases marched along every wall, with complex bits of wood and metal and strange objects he couldn’t possibly identify competing with books, scrolls, and maps on every surface. A number of open doors hinted at more overstuffed rooms beyond.

The old man threw his cloak in the general direction of a chair stacked high with books. “A lifetime’s collection,” he said in response to Hektor’s expression. “I’m a bit of a pack rat, I’m afraid. Comes with the territory. I’m an Artificer ... was an Artificer ... am a retired Artificer. The sight goes with age,” he added, poking a finger dangerously close to one eye. “Couldn’t see a drawing now to save myself. But life goes on, doesn’t it?”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

The old man gave an amused snort. “You’re polite to say so,” he acknowledged. “Of course, I don’t expect you to understand that just yet, do I? No, later, when you’re older. That’s the thing about wisdom, it comes with age. Or at least it should. Now ...” He began rummaging in a huge golden oak desk piled with a similar number of strange items and papers. “You must let me give you something for your trouble.”

Hektor drew himself up. “No, thank you, sir.”

The old man chuckled. “Too proud to accept money like a porter, Watchman?”

Hektor blushed. He made to shake his head, but something in the old man’s friendly tone made him shrug instead. “S’pose I am, sir,” he admitted.

“An honest answer. No money, then, but, now where is it, where is it, ah yes, this might do, I think.” He plucked a small metal disc from a pile of similar objects. “Perhaps a bit premature, but I believe in the power of optimism. All Artificers do, or they wouldn’t attempt half the projects they take on.” He held it out. “You must accept it. It’s just a trifle after all, and it will keep me from insisting.”

Hektor took it reluctantly, stuffing it into his pouch without looking at it.

“And now tea is in order, I should think,” the old man continued.