Tanya Huff - Brock

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2024-11-23 0 0 46.79KB 23 页 5.9玖币

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BROCK

by Tanya Huff

Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, six cats, and a chihuahua who refuses to

acknowledge her existence. Her latest book, out for DAW in May of 2003, was the third in the Keeper

Chronicles called Long Hot Summoning and she's currently working on the first of three books spinning the

character Tony off from her Blood series (DAW spring 2004). In her spare time she gardens and complains

about the weather.

"Id's just a code."

Trying not to smile at the same protest he'd heard for the last two days, Jors set the empty mug on a

small table. "Healer Lorrin says it's more, Isabel. She says you're spending the next two days in bed."

The older Herald tried to snort, but her nose had filled past the point it was possible, and she had to

settle for an avalanche of coughing instead. "She cud heal me," she muttered when she could finally

breathe again.

"She seems to think that a couple of days in bed and a couple of hundred cups of tea will heal you just

fine."

"Gibbing children their Greens..."

That was half a protest at best and, as Jors watched, Isabel's eyes closed, the lines exhaustion had

etched around them beginning to ease. Leaning forward, he blew out the lamp, then quietly slipped from

the room.

"Oh, she's sick," the Healer assured him, exasperation edging her voice. "What could have possessed her

to ride courier at her age, at this time of the year? Yes, the package and information she brought from the

Healer's Collegium will save lives this winter, but surely there had to have been younger Heralds around

to deliver it?"

Jors opened his mouth to answer.

Lorrin gave him no chance. "If she hadn't run into your riding sector, she might not have made it this far.

She needs rest and I'm keeping her in bed until I think she's had enough of it."

Jors didn't argue. He wouldn't have minded an actual conversation—Lorrin was young and

pretty—but unfortunately, she seemed too determined to run this new House of Healing the way

she felt a House of Healing should be run to waste time in dalliance with the healthy.

* * *

"Have you good as new. You see. Good as new. Soft and clean."

Jors stopped just inside the stable door and stared in astonishment at the young man grooming his

Companion. The stubby fingers that held the brush, the bulky body, the round face, angled eyes, and full

mouth told the Herald that this unexpected groom was one of those the country people called Moonlings.

He wore patched homespun; the pants too large, the shirt too small, both washed out to a grimy gray.

His boots had seen at least one other pair of feet.

He'd already groomed the chirras and Isabel's Companion, Calida—the sleeping mare all but

glowed in the dim stable light.

:Gervis?:

:His name is Brock.: The stallion's mental voice sounded sleepy and sated. :Can we take him with

us?:

:No. And how do you know what his name is?:

:He talks to us and he knows exactly—oh, yes—where to rub.:

Companions were not in the habit of allowing themselves to be groomed by other than Heralds' hands.

Jors found it hard to believe that they'd not only allowed Brock's ministrations but were actually reveling

in them. He stepped forward and, at the sound of his footfall, Brock turned.

His face broke into a broad smile radiating welcome. Arms spread, he rushed at the Herald and wrapped

him in a tight hug. Staring up at Jors, their faces barely inches apart, he joyfully repeated "Brother

Herald!" over and over while a large gray dog leaped around them barking.

:Gervis?:

:The dog's name is Rock. He's harmless.:

:Glad to hear that.:

"Brock...I can't breathe ..."

"Sorry! Sorry." Releasing him so quickly Jors stumbled and had to grab the edge of a hay rack, Brock

shuffled back, still smiling. "Sorry. I brushed." One short-fingered hand gestured back at the

Companions. "Good as new. Soft and clean."

"You did a very good job." Jors stepped around the dog, now lying panting on the floor and ran his

fingers down Gervis' side. There wasn't a bit of straw, a speck of dust, a hair out of place on either

Companion.

:Better than very good,: Gervis sighed.

Jors smiled and repeated the compliment. :Did you say thank you, you fuzzy hedonist?:

In answer, the Companion stretched out his neck and gently nuzzled Brock's cheek, receiving a loud,

smacking kiss in return.

"Okay. We go now." Brock bent and picked a ragged, gray sweater out of the straw and wrestled it

over his head. "We go now," he repeated, placing both hands in the small of Jors' back and pushing him

toward the stable door. "Or we come late and Mister Mayor is mad and yells."

"Late for...?"

:The petitions.: Gervis' mental voice sounded more than a little amused and Jors remembered he'd

intended to merely look in on the Companions on his way to the town hall.

Heading out into the square, he realized Brock was trotting to keep up, and he shortened his stride.

"Does the mayor yell a lot?"

"Yes. A lot."

"Do you know why?"

Brock sighed deeply, one hand dropping to fondle the ears of the dog walking beside him. "Mister

Mayor wears the town," he said very seriously after a moment. "The town swings heavy heavy."

Okay; that made no sense. Maybe we should try something less complex. "Is Rock your dog?"

"He's my friend. They were hurting him. I...Wait!"

Uncertain of just who had been told to wait, Jors watched Brock and the dog run across to the town well

where a pair of women argued over who'd draw their water first. Ignored in the midst of the argument,

Brock began to draw water for them. He had no trouble with the winch, but while pouring from bucket

to bucket, he splashed the older woman's skirt. Suddenly united, they turned on him. By the time Jors

arrived, Brock had filled another bucket in spite of the shouting—although his shoulders were

hunched forward and he didn't look happy.

The older woman saw him first, shoved the other, and the shouting stopped.

"Ladies."

"Herald," they said in ragged unison.

"Let me give you a hand with that, Brock. You bring the water up, and I'll pour."

"Pouring is hard," Brock warned.

"Herald, you don't have to," one of the women protested. "We never asked this..." When Jors turned a

bland stare in her direction, she reconsidered her next word. "...boy to help."

"I know." His tone cut off any further protests and neither woman said anything until all the buckets had

been filled, then they thanked him far more than the work he'd done required. He'd turned to go when at

the edge of his vision he saw one woman lean forward and pinch Brock on the arm, hissing, "Now that's

a real Herald."

"HERALD JORS!"

Across the square, the mayor stood on the steps of the town hall, chain of office glinting in the pale

autumn sunlight, both hands urging him to hurry. Well, he'll just have to wait! Lips pressed into a thin

line, Jors turned back toward the well, had his elbow firmly grabbed, and found himself facing the mayor

again.

"Mister Mayor is yelling," Brock explained, moving Jors across the square.

"Let him. I saw what happened back there. I saw that woman pinch you."

"Yes." He turned a satisfied smile toward Jors, never lessening their forward motion. "I made them stop

fighting. Heralds do that."

"Yes, they do." They'd almost reached the hall and Jors had a strong suspicion that digging his heels in

would have had no effect on their forward motion. "You're stronger than you look."

"Have to be."

I'll bet, Jors thought as he caught sight of the mayor's expression.

"Brock! Get your filthy hands off that Herald!"

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Tanya Huff - Brock

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