Were he making a song of this, it would be Healer Hedion who held them all together and gave them their purpose. But in fact it was Gaurane who was their leader—Gaurane who would not be called “Herald Gaurane,” whom Meran had never seen entirely sober, who refused to acknowledge the Companion who followed him everywhere like an exceptionally large and very white dog. Gaurane’s story would make such a song as would be any Bard’s Master work.
Except Meran didn’t know the tale and had never asked. Elade, who had joined them a moonturn later, had asked (Elade had a knack for asking inconvenient questions, which had gotten her turned out of her Free Company), but if she’d received an answer, Meran didn’t know it. How Gaurane and Hedion had met, why Gaurane could not Hear his own Companion, why Rhoses was content to follow his Chosen along the Border rather than seeking help for him, why, if there was Healing to be done, Hedion didn’t do it—all were mysteries Meran was content to leave unplumbed.
It was only at times like this, when the Summerfair merchants’ bright and glittering wares lay spread for display like the fabled treasure-cave of the legendary Queen Lilyant of Bai, that Meran spared a thought for the life he’d once thought to live. Even Elade was drawn to the splendor along the street of merchants, though her eye was caught by the table of blades, while Meran lingered before the scentseller’s booth. He wondered if he could persuade Elade that oil of violets was a necessity vital enough to expend some of their scant resources upon.
A woman stepped up to the table, and Meran drew back courteously. He did not truly intend to buy, after all, and it was only polite to leave room for those who did.
As the two women, buyer and seller, dickered over the price and kind and quality of the wares, Meran let his gaze and his attention wander. The street of merchants was only a very small part of Summerfair. For the truly exotic and the truly costly, one must seek out Haven’s Harvestfair or the shops of her High Street. Summerfair was for the farmers and holders of the south. It sold horses and mules, pigs and chickens, cows and goats, and it was also a hiring fair, for harvest was coming, when every hand would be needed. Meran had known nothing about the farmer’s year when he’d left Haven; since then he’d come to know it ran opposite to the year the townfolk kept. Spring was for planting and autumn was for harvesting. Winter was for doing all the tasks of making and mending there was no other time for. But summer was a time of near leisure.
With a practiced ear, he followed the sound of the bargaining, paying no real attention. Its cadence told him the transaction was drawing to a close when a new note was added to the song.
“Here, mistress, let me hold that for you.”
Meran turned toward the speaker. Young, dressed in clothing that was plain but of good quality, with something of the look of Iftel to him--no odd thing, when Valdemar lay open to any who wished to live in peace. He smiled as he held out his hand, and the farmwife placed a plump sack of coins into it.
Meran was about to turn away again—so the woman had a manservant; there was nothing odd in that—when he saw the young man step smoothly away from the table, tucking the money pouch into his tunic as he did. Meran would have raised the hue and cry, or even moved to stop him, were it not that the woman gave no indication anything was amiss. In a moment, the young man had disappeared into the crowd.
“My purse! Where is it?”
The indignant cry behind him summoned Meran’s attention again.
“Help! Thief! I’ve been robbed!”
“It didn’t make any sense,” Meran said, a candlemark later. “I watched her hand him her purse. And a moment later, it was as though she’d forgotten she had.”
They’d found Gaurane and Hedion at the aleseller’s nearest their lodging. There was always someone willing to rent space to travelers who had not provided their own accommodation. On the Border, they could always find an inn or a village to lodge them in exchange for a song or two if it was not giving them lodging for Hedion’s sake. Here, entertainment could be had for the asking, but beds required coin.
“Maybe they were working together,” Elade said, sounding puzzled.
“Fairs are made for thieving,” Gaurane said. He took a long pull from his tankard of ale and sighed appreciatively. “Thieves everywhere.” He tipped it up again, draining it, and reached for Meran’s cup.
“There’s a whole pitcher of ale in front of you,” Meran said indignantly, whisking his cup out of reach.
“Yes,” Gaurane said. “And if I drink it, it will be gone.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” Meran said. Then kicked himself when Gaurane smiled beatifically.
“Good lad. I knew I could depend on you.”
“She handed him her purse. And then she said she’d been robbed?” Hedion frowned, clearly still trying to make sense of the puzzle.
Of the three at the table entitled to wear the colors of one of the schools of the Collegium, only Meran was dressed in accordance with his rank. Everyone—even Elade—had been firmly against Hedion wearing his Healer’s tunic here. Summerfair was supposed to be a holiday for all of them, Hedion most of all. Even now—a full sennight after the last Mindhealing he’d performed—Hedion’s face was pinched and drawn, and he clenched his hands to stop their constant trembling when he thought no one saw. Meran knew, without having to be told, that left to himself, Hedion would pit his strength against the impossible task he’d set himself until he dropped from exhaustion. No one man could stem the tide of damage the Karsite demon-callers caused. But Hedion Mindhealer would try. If not for Gaurane, Meran knew, Hedion would have broken beneath his burden already.
“She swore someone must have taken it,” Meran said. “The scentseller told her she’d handed it to her servant—”
“But she swore she had no servant,” Gaurane finished, in the tones of one who knows how the tale ends.
Meran nodded in agreement. “She was quite indignant about it, too,” he said dryly.
“So he could hardly have been her partner,” Hedion said. “She loses her coin, she doesn’t buy the scentseller’s wares, and the man escapes. A mystery.”
“The only mystery I’m interested in solving is how long I am to stare at the bottom of my tankard before it is full again,” Gaurane said.
It was certainly a mystery, but hardly one they were likely to solve. The Heralds of Valdemar were charged with keeping the peace and meting out justice, but Gaurane insisted he was no Herald, Rhoses’ presence notwithstanding. Meran doubted the man still owned a traveling uniform, much less a set of formal Whites. As for Rhoses’ saddle and silver-belled bridle . . .
. . . there were some things it was better not to wonder about.
No, they could hardly look to Gaurane to hunt their quarry. But Meran disliked thieves. It was one thing to steal when you had to steal or starve—he’d done that often enough, before Bard Meloree found him. It was another thing to steal for sport or out of greed. The man he’d seen with Mistress Theret’s purse looked well fed (and clean, which was more to the point), and his clothes had been of good quality and in good condition.
“If you want to be a Guardsman, I’m sure they’d take you on,” Elade said in a low voice.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” Meran answered.
“Easier than buying you out of the stocks. Gaurane would complain about the waste of coin, and Hedion would worry.”
“If you can get Hedion to worry, you’re doing better than Gaurane is,” he said absently, his gaze never leaving the crowds around them.