Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

:Speaking of old; how long can he stay mounted?: Jors wondered as Tamis greeted a water seller with a question about her father.

:Verati won’t let him fall.:

:Not what I meant. Riding, even riding a Companion, can’t be easy on old joints, and I’d like to at least be out of the city before we have to stop for the day.:

In the end, Willow, the younger of their two mules, got them moving, objecting to the crowd at the Hay-market with a well-placed kick. Jors made a mental note to thank her with a carrot at the first opportunity.

The South Trade Road offered a wide selection of inns between Haven and Kettlesmith, and, for a while, Jors was afraid they’d be staying in all of them. What had seemed like a ridiculously generous amount of travel time up in the Dean’s office now made more sense.

Tamis was an early riser but only because he napped for an hour or two after they stopped at midday and went to bed while the chickens were foraging for one last meal in the inn yards. Jors spent his evenings grooming both Companions. Verati had a disconcerting way of falling asleep the moment he put brush to withers, but then Verati had a disconcerting way of falling asleep whenever they stopped, her head falling forward until her breath blew two tiny, identical divots out of the dusty ground.

They let Verati set the pace, and Tamis either talked about Heralds long dead ...

:And Shorna was so mad Dorian would say it was a nice day after she landed on the grass like that.: Jors’ silent chorus followed the inflections of the older Herald’s voice exactly.

:Does he not remember he told this story?: Gervis wondered.

:I don’t think so.:

:He called me Arrin this morning.:

:At least Arrin was a stallion. He called me Janis.: ... or slumped back against the high cantle and dozed in the saddle. Dozing, Jors discovered, did not cut into actual naptime.

When they reached Dog Inn and the turn east to Herald’s Hill, Tamis decided to join Jors in the common room for their evening meal.

“Are you sure? Your digestion wasn’t too happy after lunch.”

“Stop fussing, boy. My digestion is none of your business, no responsibility, no concern.”

Given how early they were eating—Tamis’ digestion also had strong ideas about eating too late—even the presence of two Heralds couldn’t fill the room. There were four equally elderly locals playing Horses and Hounds at a table on the other side of the small fire and tucked into a corner, a merchant waiting with no good grace for the smith to repair a cracked axle on his wagon.

“That’s apple wood.” Tamis sniffed appreciatively as he settled. “Can’t beat the way it smells as it burns. Why didn’t you mention that in your Appleby report?”

“I never noticed it.”

“Of course you didn’t. What are you doing?”

He’d been pulling the crusts off the thick slices of brown bread. Unless there was stew or soup to dip them into, previous meals had taught him Tamis couldn’t handle crusts. Waving one of the slices, he tried to explain. “I’m uh ...”

Tamis snatched it out of his hand. “Stop fussing.”

“So, Heralds.” The innkeeper settled at their table expectantly. “What news?”

“It’s quiet,” Jors told her. “The borders are peaceful, trade is good, and even the weather has been fine.”

“He writes his reports the same way,” Tamis sighed. “Accurate but not exactly memorable.” He took a long swallow of ale—“Only ale worth drinking should be dark enough to see your reflection in.”—coughed a bit, then smiled at the innkeeper broadly enough to show he still had most of his teeth. “You want a story, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

:Oh, no.:

:What is it, Chosen?:

:Tamis is about to tell a story. I bet you a royal it’s either Shorna or Terrik up the tree.:

It was neither.

“... and although he may have defeated the first rosebush, the second, I fear, was the victor. Everyone has a story, boy,” he added. “You can thank me for not mentioning your name.” He likely thought the laughter would cover the comment. Which it would have had Tamis’ voice not been at his usual compensating-for-being-mostly-deaf volume.

On the other hand, Jors reflected philosophically, even the merchant with the cracked axle seemed to have cheered up.