"How did you manage never to learn how to fish?" she asked him, after they rejoined the traffic on the road heading into Haven.
"I should learn, where?" he asked. "When very young, helping in the inn, I was. Then it was in the Academy, and fishing, a sport for gentleman is, or a subsistence for the poor. No part has it in training for a cavalry officer."
He must have been very young when he first began to work, then....
:And very poor,: Caryo told her, knowing that she needn't say more. Although fishing was traditionally a way for the poor to add another source of all-season food to the larder, the poor also had to have the time to fish. Which, clearly, Alberich had not. The very poor also might not have enough to spare for hook, line, and bait.
"Besides," he added meditatively, "where lived I and served I, no great rivers there are. Swift streams only. Trout, have I heard of, which great skill takes. Wealthy man's sport."
"Well, you've got the knack now," she replied cheerfully, and was rewarded with his sour look.
"Then best it is that to Haven I am confined," he said. "And should fish be required of me, purchased at market they can be. Else, it would be starvation."
She couldn't help it; she tried to hold back her snickers, but they escaped. He looked—pained.
"Oh, really, Alberich, it's so nice to find something you can't do!" she exclaimed.
"Glad I am, that such amusement given you I have," he told her crossly. "Perhaps a new title, I should have? Herald-Jester?"
She couldn't help it; he looked so irritated now that the giggles just burst out all over again. And finally, one corner of his mouth began to twitch, then both corners, then, although he didn't actually laugh, he unbent enough to admit that the joke, although on him, actually was rather funny.
And it wasn't until he had delivered her back to her father, sunburned nose and all, that she realized that she hadn't thought about the Wars once all afternoon. But what was truly satisfying, she also understood in a flash that in wrestling with worms and hooks and poles that would not do what he wanted them to, neither had Alberich. And that Sendar had sent her off to "do something" at the same time that someone in authority over Alberich had evidently decided that he needed some distraction.
So perhaps her father was even cleverer than she'd thought. No, there's no perhaps about it, she decided, making her way back toward the Royal Suite. He's much cleverer than I'd thought.
However, of all the thoughts that had occurred to her today, that was, perhaps, the very least surprising.
11
OUTSIDE the tavern, a storm raged, effectively ensuring that no one would be leaving or coming in any time soon. Water poured off the eaves of the tavern in sheets, like a waterfall, as the gutters overflowed. The rain spouts added to the mess, spouting like geysers, sending a torrent of water over the cobbles. It was cold out there, the temperature had plummeted, and the rain felt like icewater.
Inside the tavern, those who were stuck here nursed the last dregs of their drinks and contemplated another. Or perhaps, a nice pigeon pie or a good slice of mutton.... The innkeeper, anticipating the needs of his customers, had started a kettle of mulled cider, even though it wasn't the season for any such thing, and the spicy scent began to drift through the inn, turning heads and sharpening appetites. It was unexpectedly cozy in here, with a small fire going, just enough to take the chill off the air. And the ambiance was a million leagues away from the atmosphere in the last tavern Alberich had been in.
Alberich had come out of the secret room at the back of the stables here at the Companion's Bell, only to find that the storm which had been threatening all day had finally broken. Since he was effectively trapped here and starving, he decided to make a virtue of necessity and avail himself of the little private room reserved for Heralds and their guests.
Of course he was starving; he'd left before suppertime, and you just didn't eat what was offered in, say, the Broken Arms. Not unless you wanted to have an intimate and detailed knowledge of the inside of the privy, sooner or later, when your stomach objected to what you'd put there. Granted, the indoor water closets at the Collegium were fine things, but not as a place for an extended stay.
He'd already had his fill of watching people tonight; on the whole, he'd rather just sit back on a comfortable settle alone, and watch the storm. Here, once he was out of that secret room where he changed his identity from that of a Herald to any one of half a dozen personae he wore in this city and back again to a Herald, he felt almost as secure as at the Collegium itself.
It wasn't only the wretched neighborhoods he prowled, as a cheap thug-for-hire, as a ne'er-do-well of dubious reputation, as a sell-sword. No, he had some respectable personae as well; he was a small merchant in imported knives, he was a votary of some obscure god whose cult was so tiny that no one had ever heard of it (for good reason, since it didn't exist), he was an honest caravan guard....
But most of his time was, admittedly, spent in places most Heralds never saw but the city constables and Guard were all too familiar with. And most of it was spent accomplishing very little but waiting for one or another of his patiently-laid traps to catch something. Far too much of it was spent in places that could be called "taverns" only because they sold alcoholic drinks. And he thought he'd been served some wretched brews as a Karsite officer! At least those had been drinkable; rough, strong enough to lift the hair on your arms, but drinkable.
Tonight had been one of those nights when nothing whatsoever happened, or was going to happen, except, perhaps, a common brawl or two. The threatening storm had made people think twice about leaving whatever cramped little corner they called "home"—people with only a single change of clothing had to shiver in it until it dried on their backs if they got soaked through. The taverns had been half empty, and none of his informants had poked their noses out of their holes. When the sky above the rooftops to the west began flickering with far-off lightning, he had given up. He'd hoped to get back to the Collegium before the rain began, but luck wasn't with him, it seemed.
Then, again, perhaps it was.
Heralds were common enough visitors here in the Bell that no one remarked on their presence. When Alberich arrived here, he didn't wear his trademark gray leathers anymore, he wore Whites, which made him blend in with the other Heralds who frequented the place. Sometimes a Herald just wanted to get away from the Collegium, have a tankard or a glass of wine, flirt harmlessly with a serving girl. And why not? Heralds, as Talamir took pains to remind him, were only human.
Sometimes a number of friends wanted to get together when they all came in at once; there really wasn't a big enough room in the Palace where five or more could put their feet up and talk as long and as loudly as they wanted. You could get food anytime you wanted it, but it tended to be the sort of thing that could be fed to a great many people at once—and a bespoke meal, of exactly what one had a craving for, was something even Heralds sometimes fancied.