Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

Hektor shook his head. “I really can’t, sir,” he said, inching towards the door. “An’ pardon the liberty, but you outta get a Healer to look at that cut on your forehead.”

“What?” The old man dabbed at his head with a grimace. “Oh, yes, I shall, of course. And it just so happens that I have a Healer friend coming to take an early supper with me. I’m sure he’ll see to it then, but in the meantime, you must stay for a cup of tea.”

As Hektor opened his mouth to make a second protest, the old man waved a dismissive hand at him. “I insist. Besides,” he added with a mischievous smile. “I might suffer a terrible collapse as a result of my injury. You might say that it’s your duty to remain until my friend arrives. Sit.” Pointing at a chair covered in scrolls, he bustled into the kitchen, and with a sigh, Hektor did as he was told.

The room was stuffy and warm, the tea expensive and strong. A plate of fancy cakes sat on a silver tray by the teapot, and Hektor allowed himself to be prodded into eating several. The old man was interesting company, telling a short tale or two of his own life and inviting his guest to do the same. The sun had passed the window, casting the room into darkness before Hektor remembered his errands with a guilty start. He glanced surreptitiously at the door, but the old man caught the movement at once.

“Do you need to get away so soon?” he asked. “Surely your shift is over by now?”

“I need to report back to the watchhouse, sir,” Hektor answered, rising. “And I have errands to run before I go home.”

“Errands?”

“The sweetshop and the herbalist. One of my grandfather’s birds is ailing.”

“Well, I’m sure my friend will be along any moment. Just finish off that final cake, won’t you, or it will go stale. Now, you were telling me about this business of the iron market fire.”

With reluctance, Hektor sat back down again.

It was at least another half candlemark before they heard someone at the door. The old man called out a greeting, and Hektor rose at once as a heavyset man in the dark green cloak of the College of Healers entered the room. He came forward quickly to take the old man’s hand.

“I only just learned of your accident or I would have come much sooner, Daedrus,” he apologized in a gruff tone. “You should have sent for me.”

“Nonsense, Markus. I’m right as rain. You had lectures and rounds. Besides, I had my young rescuer here to keep watch over me. May I present Hektor Dann of the City Watch? One of Haven’s finest.”

Hektor started, and Daedrus began to chuckle. “Well of course I know who you are, boy. Do you think I’m just some lonely old man who lets anyone into his home? The Danns may not be known within the second gate, but they’re well known beyond it. And I do most of my shopping beyond it.

“We were just discussing the iron market fire, Markus,” he continued as the Healer began to examine the wound on his forehead.

“Oh?”

“Yes. A bad business, that. Young Hektor lost his father, you know, who was trying to bring people out. It’s caused a lot of bad feelings in the neighborhood.”

“Has it? Please stop moving your head, Daedrus.”

“Indeed. There’s even some fear that the citizens of Iron Street may take matters into their own hands if the issue isn’t resolved to their satisfaction. Or so I’ve heard in the marketplace.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose we should reconsider our supper at the White Lily if the streets are this unsettled.”

“Quite right.” The Healer straightened. “Well, your head needs to be properly cleaned and possibly stitched before we can even think about supper, and I’m sure the young watchman would like to get home for his own.”

Hektor moved immediately toward the door.

“You will come and see me again, won’t you?” the old man called after him. “I quite enjoyed our conversation, and I’m eager to learn the outcome of this latest drama.”

Making a mumbled promise, Hektor almost ran for the door.

It was full dark by the time he reached the watchhouse. The captain had long since left, and it was with some relief that he made tracks for the herbalist’s. Grumbling all the while, the woman stuffed two small packets into his hand, accepted his money, then shoved him unceremoniously out the door. He just managed to catch the smell of meat pies wafting from the back before the door was shut firmly behind him. With a sigh, he headed for the sweetshop.

It was closed, and no amount of pounding on the door could elicit a response. Glaring at the tightly locked shutters, Hektor turning toward home, imagining what his family would say.

The scene that greeted him was not what he expected. Kasiath met him at the door, her face beaming.

“Oh, Hektor, they’re wonderful. Such sweets. Come and see.”