Under stress, he slipped into that world as easily as a bottom-fish slipping into the muddy river bottom.
Mostly, Dethor had collected information—in the Court and out of it, from the servants' common room in the Palace, to the vilest alleys near Exile's Gate, to the scented rooms where courtiers fenced with words.
Mostly—But a time or two, Dethor had done more than collect intelligence and pass it on to Talamir. A so-called "agent" who was also a Herald had an extraordinary degree of freedom to act as he saw fit, and once, Dethor had used his knowledge of traps to cause a single fatal "accident."
And he had agonized over that murder, for murder it was, and never mind that the man had been the hidden heart of a vile trade and no one had been or would be able to bring him to justice. Dethor had murdered and knew it, and still agonized over it.
:As you would. As you would act, if there was no other way, and you would be decisive about it.:
Yes, he would, on both counts. But although he would regret murder, for he hated killing, he would not allow such a thing to ride him with guilt afterward. He felt his pulse throbbing in the hollow of his throat, and his collar felt too tight. Yes, he would. Some things had to be done—and was it better to stain innocent hands with blood, or add one more stain to the sleeve of one already steeped in it?
The King could have "agents" like the Lord Marshal had, men who would take their orders and carry them out, and leave the question of whether the orders were morally justified to someone else. The King did not want that. He wanted a Herald; he wanted someone who did not simply take orders. He wanted someone who would think—weigh—and act. And agonize over it afterwards perhaps... because there would be that necessary question when it was all over.
But it had to be a particular kind of Herald, and such folk did not emerge from among the children—children with their shining certainty of right and wrong—that came with their Companions to fill the rooms of the Collegium every year. He would not besmirch those pure hearts, would not twist them into something that they were not.
It took a Herald like Dethor, like Alberich, who was Chosen as an adult, full-grown, who knew about moral ambiguities and difficult choices. Like Dethor—who had himself been one of the Lord Marshal's agents, before he was Chosen. Like Dethor's master, the Weaponsmaster before him, who had grown up a child of poverty, seen the evils of the world very young, wiser than his years, though his parents had sheltered him from what they could.
No such man (or woman, though perhaps it would have been harder for a woman) had come to Dethor and Talamir until now, and they were not altogether certain that Alberich was the right material for this task. But he was what they had... and they were in terrible need of some man for the job. Talamir was altogether too recognizable and too desperately needed to have the time for such covert walkings, and as for Dethor, who could barely hobble to the Collegium for a Council meeting or a meal now and again—well.
All this poured into his mind as the other two sat quietly, waiting for him to assimilate it all. Did they know what Kantor was showing him?
:Of course they know. It is our way. I can show you in moments, what would take them days to explain.:
Ah. Expedience... so the Companions knew it, too. Somehow that made him feel more akin to Kantor, not less.
He took a deep breath, and regarded both of them with somber eyes.
"It is much of me, that you ask," he said slowly. "It is surprised, I am. When I have here been—how long?"
"Conscious or unconscious?" Dethor retorted and shrugged. "You've been a real part of things for maybe a fortnight. And I would never in a hundred thousand years think to trust you with this—except for Taver."
:Why Taver?: he asked Kantor silently. :Why, if Companions are as fallible as any other?:
:Because Taver can make mistakes, but never that kind of mistake. Never, ever, a mistake in judging a person's character, his heart, and soul,: came the reply—and then he got the sensation that Kantor was conferring with someone else.
Talamir and Dethor watched him closely, weighing his least expression, just as Kantor added, :Come outside, if you trust me. There is something more you need to have that Taver wishes to share with you. And not just for making this decision.:
There were so many overtones to that deceptively simple statement that it was Alberich's turn to start with surprise. There was more than a hint that this was something as important as anything that anyone had ever told him in all of his life—something life-shatteringly important. And a subtle shading that this was something Taver had never shared with any other Herald.
Not even Talamir. Not even Talamir.
Suddenly, he had to know what this thing was. "Rude, I do not wish to be," he said abruptly. "But think on this—with no eyes on me—I must, for a little." He stood up even as he said this, and the other two Heralds watched him measuringly, but with a leavening of understanding.
"You don't have to give us an answer right away," Talamir said, as if making up his own mind about it. "But if you would consider it—"
"Tedrels—and now this—" Alberich shook his head. "I must think alone. But consider it, with all seriousness, I will. And—I will answer you soon." He did not define "soon."
The other two remained in their seats as he stalked off, head swirling dizzily with a dozen contradictory thoughts.
He wanted to go back to Karse. The very notion of the Tedrels being near there made his skin crawl. He wanted to hide here, and never hear of Karse again. He didn't want this new job that Talamir and Dethor had suggested, and yet, if he didn't take it, the tasks would be done, but by men who left their thinking and their morality in the hands of others, and merely followed orders... and never cared what the repercussions would be, never wondered if they had done the right thing, never thought at all. The bare idea was repugnant.
And he wanted to see just what this secret that the Companion Taver held could be. And how could it possibly, possibly, have any relevance to him?
Taver was waiting outside, just out of sight of the windows of Dethor's sitting room, with Kantor beside him. The sun was setting, and the air lay thick and sweet and still among the trees around the salle—but there was a hint of the bitterness of dying leaves in the sweetness, and the poignant suggestion of autumn coming soon, soon.
:Thank you for coming,: Taver said gravely, directly into Alberich's mind, startling him. Taver's mind-voice was distinctive; rich and deep, with a little breath of echo to it. There was a certainty and a stillness to it, as if Taver was a great tree, with his head in the clouds and his roots reaching down to the bedrock. And powerful, without ever making Alberich feel the power as anything other than potential.