by Melanie Rawn
Tangle puzzles were an invention of the redoubtable Tamosin Wolvar. Nephew of the Scholar Mage whose mastery of Mage Globes was unequaled in Guardian history, Tamosin had devised something entirely new to be master of. Made of odd-shaped wooden pieces painted white, the puzzle fit together only one way. But depending on which piece was chosen first, on completion the white surfaces became a different picture every time. These two—Cailet’s first major effort—stayed blank until ten of the hundred pieces were correctly put together. Then part of the scene appeared and ten more pieces began to glow around the edges. The players had one minute to fit these, whereupon ten more pieces glowed, and so on. In the week since the twins had unwrapped the puzzles, Collan had seen renderings of a sailing ship, Roke Castle, Tillin Lake, a galazhi in mid-leap, the St. Tamas Temple at Pinderon, Roseguard, Mage Hall, and a galloping herd of Maurgen Dapplebacks. In her Birthingday greeting, Cai had told the children to start with the pieces tied with ribbons, and when they finally solved the puzzles they turned out to be notes informing them that there was one scene for every piece, depending on which piece they picked out first. One hundred pieces, one hundred pictures; the Mage Captal was definitely showing off.
Not to mention spoiling them, as usual. Everyone did. “Meek” would never describe Taigan or Mikel, but “scandalously indulged” occasionally came to mind. Col himself was hardly guiltless. His own gifts, not to be opened until the great day itself, were twin Rosvenir knives for his daughter (with emeralds in the hilts, to match her eyes) and a new rosewood lute for his son (inlaid with pearl fret-markers). Well, he argued with himself as he poured a glass of brandy, what father didn’t want to give his children the best of everything? What they asked for, they ought to get—within reason, of course. Trouble was, Taigan and Mikel could think up such persuasive reasons. . . .
Chuckling, he sprawled in an overstuffed chair by the empty hearth and took up pen and notebook. In the absence of Sarra as inspiration to more enjoyable activities, he used his highly inspirational memories to prompt the only song he’d ever tried to write. He’d finished exactly four six-fine verses in twelve years. His struggles proved what he’d known all along: a gifted Minstrel, he would never be a real Bard. Still, he kept at the writing when Sarra was away and he couldn’t sleep. His excuse for meager output was that she was a difficult subject.
The lyric came one couplet at a time. Often he rearranged previous lines to accommodate new ones, and several times he’d thrown out every word and started over. The right words were hard enough. The melody had given him fits. Neither sweet nor somber, neither light nor pompous; playful in places, tender in others; hinting at her great dignity and even greater power; teasing and magical and a dozen other things besides—he’d set himself an impossible task, just with the music. But Falundir had nodded approval when Collan played it for him this spring, so it must have at least a little merit to it. Legend had it that some Bards wrote a thousand songs in a lifetime, others only a few, but each must be perfect. If Col-Ian could get just this one song right before he died, he’d go to his Name Saint a happy Wraith.
But Colynna Silverstring wasn’t much help tonight. He’d learned not to let lack of progress frustrate him—fatherhood had taught him a modicum of patience, if nothing else. Eventually he’d finish the song, and sing it for Sarra, and the look in her eyes would reward all the years of effort. He reviewed what he’d already written, finding it as good as a mere Minstrel could manage, then made a long arm for Falundir’s lute on its stand. He played the tune without singing the words; superstitious, he would not put the words to the music until he sang it for Sarra for the first time. She didn’t even know he was writing it.
Bushes rustled below the open balcony window at the same time a Ward chittered a warning in Collan’s head. His fingers froze in mid-run. Leaping to his feet, he cradled the lute on the chair and lunged for the balcony.
The Ladymoon was full; there was plenty of light to see by. And what he saw, ten feet below him in the middle of the Rose Tree Walk that had been Verald Jescarin’s pride, was a slight and utterly innocuous figure in dark pants and shirt.
Col vaulted the balustrade as if he were still twenty years old, surprised when his left knee nearly collapsed under him. The one he’d broken Warris’s nose with—no wonder it hurt. Before the intruder knew what was happening, Col had hold of an arm and pulled her around so he could see her face by moonlight.
His face: about thirteen years old (old enough to wear a coif, anyway) and startlingly beautiful, even when terrified. The boy’s huge gray eyes were framed by absurdly long lashes and a green coif from which a few silky black curls escaped. For a moment Col simply gaped—as surely everyone did at first sight of him. Or hundredth sight, for that matter. Compared to this boy, even the gorgeous Ellus Penteon looked like a rough draft.
Finally recovering his voice, Collan demanded, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was just looking—I didn’t touch anything—”
The Ward was triggered not by touch but by presence. Set by Cailet and regularly renewed by her Mages, it was keyed to Sarra and even to Collan’s unMageborn mind by some obscure and difficult spell. Something had set it off, and this boy was his only candidate.
“I didn’t ask what you did, I asked what you’re doing.”
“I swear I didn’t touch anything! I’m sorry, I just wanted to see the roses before we go back tomorrow—and then I heard somebody playing a lute, and it was so beautiful—”
The misery in his eyes embarrassed Collan. He wasn’t in the habit of causing stark terror in children. “All right, don’t worry about it. Where are you going back to?”
“Sleginhold.”
“And you don’t much want to,” Col said.
Slight shoulders lifted and fell in a resigned shrug. “It’s all the same to me. It pretty much has to be. I’m an orphan.” He looked up at Collan as if to challenge a reaction from him.
“Me, too,” Col said. The boy stared, then narrowed his eyes in a quick inspection of clothes and lack of coif. “I guess you pretty much have to do as you’re told, huh?”
A sigh, a nod. Col figured he knew the problem. Like Ellus Penteon, this boy would be highly sought in marriage. By next year, brawls would break out when he walked down the street; women would forget what the word dowry meant when they looked into those eyes.
But something nagged at him, canceling any words of sympathy he might have spoken. Once this Ward was triggered, catching whoever tripped it would silence it until the next time. Col had hold of the boy’s arm, but the Ward still chattered in his head.
“By the way,” the boy was saying, calmer now, “your fountain needs work. Something’s wrong with the machinery.”
Collan blinked. “Huh?”
“Everybody knows that all the Roseguard waters play the same tune.”
“‘Rose of Sheve Dark,’” Col said automatically. “By Lady Agatine’s order, years and years ago.”
A long finger pointed to the dancing moonlit droplets nearby. “That one sounds more like ‘Broke My Spoke in Cantratown.’”
Holy Saints! How would a child his age know the bawdiest whorehouse ballad in five Shirs? Collan conveniently forgot that when he was a child this age, he’d already spent half a year earning his own living on the streets.
“It’d only take a couple of adjustments—I could probably fix it in an hour. Fountain machinery’s delicate and needs tuning every so often—they’re just like stringed instruments, truly told.”
“Thanks for the offer, but it’ll have to wait until morning.”
“I’ll be gone in the morning,” he muttered.
Maybe it was his beauty, or something about his eyes that reminded Collan of someone, or—more likely—the suspicions still lurking at the back of his head with the nattering of the Ward. But he was strangely interested in this rather unusual boy. “So you like machinery as well as flowers, huh?”
“Yes, Lord Rosvenir.” He gulped and suddenly seemed to find his hands quite fascinating. “It’s—it’s how I got in. I picked the lock on the gate.”
That explained it, then. Not only did the intruder have to be caught, but the lock—if opened—had to be relocked before the Ward shut up.
“I’m sorry, truly,” the boy went nervously on. “But it was so easy to open—”
Collan almost laughed. This youngster must be the darling of three Saints: Joselet Green-eyes for the gardener in him, Maurget Quickfingers for the mechanic, and Pierga Cleverhand for the lockpick. Perhaps Maidil the Betrayer, too, for the havoc that face would surely cause.
“You opened it, you go close it on your way out,” Collan said.
Wide gray eyes went wider. “You mean—you’re not going to—” The boy gulped. “—have me arrested?”
“Geridon’s Stones, no—what for? But you’d better fix my lock and get back to bed before somebody misses you. Looks to me like you’re not too old for a good spanking.”
“I’m not a baby!”
“Then stop whining like one.”
A moment of rebellious resentment; then the boy nodded.
“Relax. Anybody with ears good enough to know when a fountain’s out of tune—let alone somebody who can fix it—is all right by me. Go on, fix the lock and get out of here.”
In reply he received a dazzling smile. As the boy ran headlong for the garden gate, Col whistled softly between his teeth, a long descending note of amazement. He knew his own face wasn’t painful to women’s gazes, but he was very glad he hadn’t been born that beautiful.
He returned to the music room—by the steps, not back over the balcony railing—and waited for the Ward to quiet down. Culprit apprehended, lock surely secured by now . . . but the warning still babbled in his head. He poured another drink, counting minutes. Maybe the thing was working about as well as the fountain, and Cai needed to reset it. Maybe it was his imagination that made it echo like this. He sipped brandy, gnawed his lip, and got up to pace, annoyed by the incessant Ward and the feeling that he’d forgotten something. . . .
And then he remembered what Warris said about the twins, asleep in their beds at home.
Whirling, he ran to their room. “Teggie? Mishka?”
Their beds were empty, the covers strewn on the floor.
10
WITHIN ten minutes, as the clock in Collan’s office chimed Fifteenth, every member of the Watch had been alerted and the four Mage Guardians in residence had gathered at the Warded gate. Their opinion, after Collan’s recital of events, was that the timing was wrong.
Biren Halvos, whose tawny good looks were such that Jennis Maurgen had let him father her second set of twins, shook his head. “I know this type of Working—fiendish clever, our Captal—and it targets only persons with malevolent intent. Otherwise the gardeners couldn’t come in to mow the grass.”
“But to the grass, the gardeners are malevolent, don’t you think?” mused Tia Krestos, and neither her reputation as a Scholar Mage nor her eighty-five years could spare her Collan’s venomous glare.
“As I said,” Biren went on, “our Captal is clever. The Ward is quite specialized, and fixes on those persons entering with intent to harm those who live at Roseguard.”
Cailet had neglected to mention that aspect of the Ward; typical.
Another Mage nodded her sleep-tousled head. Trelin Halvos, Biren’s older sister, rubbed the side of her formidable nose and told Collan, “The boy wouldn’t matter to the Ward because all he wanted to do was look at the roses. Or so he said.”
“I never really suspected him anyhow,” Col said impatiently.
“Suspect everyone,” Tia Krestos muttered. “I always have. Kept me alive during Anniyas’s Purge.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Trelin, taking the elderly woman’s arm. “But perhaps you ought to return to bed, Tia. It’s very late.”
“Nonsense, child. Stop fussing. My mind’s no more mushy at Fifteenth than it is at Fifth.” She eyed Collan, squinting upward a good foot and a half, a strand of white hair falling over her brow. “Timing. That’s the thing.”
“She’s right,” Biren said. “You heard the Ward, went immediately to the gardens, and saw the boy. He couldn’t have come so far so fast—therefore he wasn’t the one who tripped the Ward.”
“But he opened the gate—he said so. Picked the lock,” Col reminded the Mage.
“Timing—and intent.” Tia Krestos nodded to herself. “A smart boy, to have concealed all his true purpose inside a desire to see your roses.”
“That’s not proved,” Trelin objected.
“Whatever!” Collan snapped. “It’s Siral Warris I suspect of stealing my children. The Watch is searching for him. What are you doing to find Taigan and Mikel?”
Trelin’s long face drew into even deeper lines of unhappiness. “If we knew them to be Mageborns, as the Captal suspects they are, there might be a chance. But I’m afraid that unless magic is very strong indeed, it can’t be traced in children under the age of twelve or thirteen.”
“I’ve been searching,” the fourth Mage said suddenly. “There’s nothing.”
“Are you sure, Maivis?” asked Biren. “Try again.” When the older woman closed her eyes to concentrate, he murmured to Col, “She’s the most sensitive of us, and has found more Mageborns than anyone but the Captal herself.”
But Collan knew that Maivis Maklyn could have ten times the sensitivity of every Captal ever born and still would find nothing. Cailet had done her work too well on the twins, establishing Wards to protect them from what had happened to Alin Ostin. It had seemed a good idea at the time: gently but completely blocking their magic until they matured and Cailet could guide them without trauma into their powers.
Damn Cailet for her caution.
He didn’t wait for Maivis Maklyn to report failure. Saying, “Let me know,” to Biren, he left the Residence and strode through the public gardens toward town.
Roseguard had nearly thirty thousand inhabitants. Thousands more came through on business or pleasure. A percentage of them would be amenable to sharing a ransom with Siral Warris. Lady Sarra Liwellan was a rich woman. But she was also a powerful woman, and the penalty for stealing her children would deter a sizable percentage of that percentage. Col did the mathematics quite coolly, and came up with a probable five thousand individuals, give or take a hundred, who would help Warris just for the money’s sake.
Warris couldn’t possibly know five thousand people in Roseguard.
All he needed was one.
Think! He won’t risk staying in the city because he knows I’ll search every square inch of it personally. He’s a lousy rider, he almost certainly doesn’t know the countryside around here, and it’d be hard to control two children on horseback anyway—unless he’s got a carriage, or unless they were unconscious or dead—
No!
Taigan and Mikel were his own flesh and blood. He’d know if they were gone—
He crammed terror into a corner of his mind and shut a stone door on it.
No general alarm had been raised in the city; the Watch had been told to search thoroughly but quietly. Roseguard’s streets were nearly empty, all good citizens at home by their own hearths. If Warris didn’t have a hiding place, he’d be racing from shadow to shadow—but how could he do that with two children in tow? Unless they were unconscious, or—
Collan heard his heart’s rhythm match and then outpace the clatter of his bootheels on cobblestones, and took in deeper breaths of chill night air to calm himself down. Think!
Warris needed money. His kind always did. He wouldn’t kill the twins; he wanted the ransom.
He wouldn’t kill them.
Memory supplied the fact that Warris had stolen aboard ships before—their second meeting had been dockside at Domburr Castle, Collan leaving rather hastily for Firrense
just as Warris was being hauled off to the Port Authority by an infuriated captain. But now he had two children to smuggle on board ship. . . .
Idiot. He won’t try to steal them onto a boat. He’ll steal the boat instead.
There were plenty to choose from. A short sail to a fishing village down the coast, a note sent to Roseguard—
But how could he be sure of finding someone to take him in—broken-nosed, swollen-faced, and with two children he’d have to keep quiet somehow?
Not even the most desperate man would be so stupid. Venal and vindictive he might be, but Warris wasn’t fool enough to steal Collan’s children without a workable plan for success. He wasn’t smart enough to come up with such a scheme on his own.
Someone was helping him.
That gray-eyed boy, that future heartbreaker, had kept Collan out of the Residence for a good ten minutes.
It occurred to him then that the boy had known his name. Called him “Lord Rosvenir.” Col hadn’t been to Sleginhold in years—it was Miram’s and Riddon’s now—for the boy to recognize him. Yet he’d used his name.
Should he find the Watch and tell them to look for a black-haired boy in a green coif—a boy they couldn’t miss for his staggering beauty?
The boy had come in first, leaving the way clear for Warris. Collan had heard the bushes rustle at the same time the Ward had been set off in his head. The distance between the gate and the fountain was too great to be run so fast, even by a swift-legged child.
But the boy didn’t matter. Whether he was involved or not, his was not the mind that had conceived this. Neither had Warris. He was neither smart enough to steal the twins on his own, nor stupid enough to believe he could get away with it.