Under the Vale and Other Tales of Valdemar by Mercedes Lackey Read Free Book Online Page B

Chosen. Or even one of the Mind Gifts at all.”
    Rhoses tossed his head. Hedion paused, listening. “ ‘When we are not with our Chosen, we only know what they know. Yes. It is possible.’ ”
    “What he means is, even if you dragged your man right up to one of those idiot meddlers in their pretty white suits, it’s even odds he’d convince them to let him go again sooner or later,” Gaurane said irritably. “And we still aren’t thief takers. So why is it our problem?”
    “Thieves are cautious,” Meran said slowly. A thought had been taking shape in his mind from the first time he’d run into their Gifted thief; even now he wasn’t entirely sure of the shape of it. “You’d say it would be more cautious not to steal at all, I know, but imagine you have no choice. Or just think you can get away with it. Even so, nobody wants to be caught. So a thief—a career thief, a professional—doesn’t take risks. But imagine there are no risks. Imagine you’ll never be caught—or if you’re caught, you’ll never be punished. Once you were sure of that . . . what might you do?”
    “You mean he’ll do worse,” Elade said flatly.
    “Maybe,” Meran said.
    “We can’t risk it,” Hedion said firmly. “But if you’ve guessed right, Meran, how do we catch him? Or keep our hands on him once we have?”
    He looked toward Gaurane, and Meran knew Rhoses must be speaking. But whatever he said, Hedion didn’t repeat it.
     
    Carjoris Lor was a happy man. Why shouldn’t he be, when the whole world was his treasure sack? From the moment he’d made up his mind to come west to find his fortune, Fortune had found him.
    He’d always lived by his wits. He’d grown up traveling from farm to farm, following the work, and a quick tongue and a gift of invention had saved young Carjoris from countless beatings. In his itinerant world, theft had few consequences: it would be a year and more before a laborer’s caravan returned, and by then the theft would have been forgotten.
    He was not clever enough to see—not then—that the things a child might steal were small and easily forgotten . . . but that the theft of clothes or boots or coin would be mourned and long remembered. He’d been shocked when, upon their return to a place he’d nearly forgotten, his family was accused of stealing—and outraged when they cast him out.
    You never cared where things came from. In all the years I brought you things, you never asked. But in the end, you cared more about being welcome back in some mudhole than you did about me.
    But it was an old injury now, half forgotten. He wasn’t sure when it was that the lies he told as he wandered from town to town began to be taken for truth. At first he thought it was his cleverness—or their stupidity.
    But later he came to realize it was magic . Whatever he said—whatever he wanted —would be taken as truth.
    It was a pity it never lasted long. Once he was out of sight, his victims remembered their own truths. No matter how hard he tried to settle down, he’d always had to keep moving.
    Then one day he’d heard that in Valdemar no one believed in magic.
    People who didn’t believe in magic would surely be ripe for the plucking.
    When he reached Valdemar, he’d been careful and cautious at first, using his magic for small things, things no one could say did them any harm. But the fact it worked had made him bolder. A country fair was just the place to test his powers. And after that . . .
    A fine horse and fine clothes and a pocket full of gold—and no one ever again telling me what to do.
    Today Carjoris decided to visit the horse fair. He did not fear arrest—even the guardswoman who’d chased him yesterday hadn’t been immune to his magic. If anyone accused him, all he had to do was say he was innocent. They’d believe him. He moved quickly past the lines of mules, the broken-down hacks, the plow horses and cart horses. There, at the end of the street, were the creatures he