Changes

by Mercedes Lackey

  According to Corwin, who had actually been there, Bear’s rant had not only been scathing, it had hit home with no few of the Guard. Evidently Bear’s father was not the only man who wanted to keep his son under his paternal thumb, bound body and soul to whatever the family business or tradition was, regardless of whether the boy was suited to it. Bear had gotten quite a few sympathetic hearers that he probably had not expected.

  Enough that when Bear was done and had stormed back to Healers’ Collegium, the Captain of the Guard had taken Cuburn aside and suggested that his men were going to find it difficult to completely trust in someone who had taken the position with the Guard for the purpose of spying on someone. How could they trust anyone who was “no better than a nosy old gossip?”

  Cuburn had vigorously denied he was doing any such thing and swore that he had taken the job because he wanted to serve the Guard, who were the first defense of Valdemar. He swore he would prove it any way that the Captain wanted.

  He probably hadn’t reckoned on the Captain calling his bluff.

  “In that case,” the Captain had said, “You won’t object to my arranging a transfer.”

  Mags didn’t know if Bear had heard about that part. He also didn’t know if the Captain had actually gone through with asking for that transfer. Corwin had told him that transfers could take several moons, so . . . well, he supposed they would only know the truth when Cuburn was gone.

  Officially, Bear had been given a stern lecture by his Dean. Unofficially—well, who knew? He was still acting as disgruntled as his namesake after a long winter’s hibernation. Mags was perversely proud of him, actually, as proud as he was of Lena. Bear didn’t have his father in reach, but he did have his father’s spy, and he could be certain that every word he had spoken would get back to the man he really wanted to have words with.

  But he couldn’t tell them that, because he hadn’t seen so much as a thread of Bardic Trainee rust or Healer Trainee pale green since he’d sent them out of his room.

  All Mags could do, really, was concentrate on his studies and on research in the library and the Heralds’ Archives to see if anything like Ice and Stone or the shields they wore had ever come up before, and, if so, had there been any way of finding such things when the ones who were being shielded didn’t want to be found. He frequently found himself looking back with nostalgia on the time when the most urgent reason to be here was to find out who or what his parents had been. Then it had only been to prove that he was not the child of thieves and murderers. Now there was, potentially, an entire city at risk.

  And he prayed for the weather to break. Because just maybe all it was going to need was a good hard rain and cooler weather to clear peoples’ heads. Since he was pretty sure that virtually everyone else in all of Haven was praying for the same thing, it was a wonder that the gods hadn’t answered before this.

  Which, Dallen’d tell me, an’ prolly any good priest, ain’t how gods work. Which don’ seem fair t’me, when all we’re askin’ fer is a liddle rain.

  He was up in the Archives alone when the sound of light footsteps in the corridor warned him that he wasn’t going to be alone much longer. He sighed. He really, truly, did not want to be bothered right now. It was late enough that his daily headache had bloomed nicely behind his forehead and cheekbones, and it was only the fact that it was still too hot to sleep in the Field kept him up here in the Archives.

  And they were female footsteps from the sound of it, unless it was a page. Pages usually didn’t come up here unless they were sent. So either some female was coming here, or a page had been sent here, and in either case it was more likely that the desired object of the person’s search was Mags and not a random volume of Heraldic Reports.

  He abandoned the passage he had been working on and waited, knowing he might as well. If that unknown someone was coming here to do research herself, he could go right back to what he was doing. But if she was looking for him, he wouldn’t be allowed to get back to work without hearing what she wanted and probably coming up with an answer for her. He just hoped it was something trivial—like an answer to part of the classwork.

  But when Lena came in through the door, he was actually shocked. He would have expected to see almost anyone but Lena. “Lena?” he said incredulously.

  She ducked her head a little, diffidently. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important . . .” At the moment there wasn’t a trace of the bold little tiger who had faced down her father.

  He closed the book and pushed it aside. “Importat, aye. Urgent . . . not s’much.”

  “Oh, good. I need advice,” she said, sitting down at the little table across from him.

  Oh, bugger. Here it comes. She’s going to ask me for advice about—

  “It’s my father.” She sighed heavily. “He wants me to talk to you about an invitation for you and Amily.”

  Mags eyed her dubiously. “What sorta invitation? T’what? Why me’n Amily?”

  “He wants you and Amily to come to one of those private concerts,” she said, with decidedly mixed emotions warring in her expression. “It’s in one of the mansion on the Hill. I . . . just don’t know what to think about him anymore.”

  “Ye think ’bout him th’s same way ye think ’bout any other thief. But why’d ’e ask fer me i’ the furst place?” He looked right into her eyes so she could see the sincerity there.

  “You’re—well, you’re Mags,” she replied, as if that was answer enough. “You stopped that madman from burning the stable, you’re a brilliant Kirball player, and you saved Amily.”

  “Lotsa people saved Amily,” he pointed out with perfect truth. She rolled her eyes.

  “You are either incredibly modest or incredibly dense,” she said crossly. “You act as if you aren’t anyone special, but you saw how those young highborn treated you before you rescued Amily—like a hero. And now? Every single person at that concert is going want to talk to you, flirt with you, ask your opinon on things.” She shook her head slightly. “Anyone who is there is going to lord it over everyone who wasn’t if you turn up there. Which, of course, Father knows. He acts like a spoiled adolescent who just knows no matter how much trouble he gets into, he can charm his way out of it. This is probably part of the ‘charming his way out of it.’ ”

  “Because it gets ’im more people what think ’e’s next thing’ t’ a miracle worker. I’d be sick ’cept it’d take too much energy.” Mags actually did feel a little sick. Did Marchand ever stop trying to manipulate people? Was there ever a moment in his day that he wasn’t scheming and plotting a way to make an already fabulous existence even better? The man had adulation, hordes of followers, he was wealthy, he could have virtually anything he wanted within reason. But it never seemed to be anough for him.

  “He’s asking Amily too, because you are the romantic couple, the hero who risked his life to save her and all of that rot.” She paused. “I think.”

  “Whazzat s’posed t’mean?” he asked.

  “That . . . I don’t know, because he could actually have taken Lita’s lecture to heart this time, and this could be a demonstration of good intentions. Or he could be even more crafty than I thought, and it’s the appearance of good intentions, designed to throw any sort of suspicions off.” She frowned. “I just don’t know. I can’t tell. And . . . oh, damn, anyway!” She scrubbed fiercely at her eyes. “He’s being nice to me after I was the one that told Lita what he was doing! He thanked me for ‘bringing him to his senses.’ I don’t know if it’s real, or if it’s because he knows he won’t be able to get to you except through me. I want it to be real. I still want it, even after all I know about him!” She looked up at him, shoulders hunched. “Do you think it’s real?”

  Mags tried to figure out how to be sympathetic without being overly sympathetic and failed utterly. “Erm . . .” he said.

  “And I am not going to cry!” she said fiercely. “Bear was horrible about it, but he was right. I am not going to cry over this! He doesn
’t deserve one bit of my concern, right?”

  “Ah,” was all he could manage. He studied his hands. And thought. “Well,” he said tentatively. “Amily could stand ter get out. I don’ mind bein’ shown ’round like a prize, ’cause I kin git a chance t’ do th’ whole boy ain’t too bright act thet Nikolas wants me ter do. So, hell, Marchand’s motives don’t even come inter what I decide, practically speakin’.”

  “I suppose . . .” she replied. She didn’t sound convinced.

  “An’ ‘nother thing. Git ’im t’invite Lord Wess. Feller has a eye on ’im, an’ ’e’s sharper nor a good knife. I cain’t go sniffin’ ’round Marchand’s head w’out he’s doin’ somethin’ ’gainst th’ law. But Wess? Wess kin watch yer pa, an’ lissen, an’ prolly git ’im t’say thin’s ’e’d ruther not. Iffen yer pa’s fakin’ it, reckon Wess’ll winkle it out.”

  He smiled, rather pleased with himself for thinking of that, and made a mental note to add Wess to his little company of helpers. He didn’t have anyone among the highborn, just the people around Master Soren. Wess would be exceedingly useful, and he’d gotten the impression that Wess would enjoy being exceedingly useful. The young lord had often complained that as the third son, he had about as much utility as a third leg.

  “But—” she began.

  He shook his head. “Don’ e’en bother tryin’ ter figger Marchand out, ’cause it don’ matter what ’is motive is. Point is, we make ’im useful ter us, an’ nothin’ else hasta matter. Jest keep yer head on thet. ’cause otherwise, ’e’s gonna get t’yer, yer gonna want ’im t’ be a real pa t’ye, an’ yer back where ye was.”

  “But—” Her eyebrows creased. “What if he really is trying to do right?” She thought a moment. “Well, this concert thing does look rather bad. There’s no reason why he would want you and Amily there except to increase his own prestige. But maybe someone is going to be there that he thinks you or Amily should meet!”

  “I dunno iffen ’e’s finally doin’ right. You dunno. Likely ’e don’ even know.” Mags shrugged. “We got ter wait for it t’play out. Till then, we jest make sure we use ’im, cause damn sure iffen ’e ain’t walkin’ th’ straight path, ’e’s tryin’ t’use us. An’ iffen anythin’, ’e owes us fer bein’ sech a piss-poor father. Fair?”

  She sighed. “Fair.”

  He held up a cautionary hand. “Now, I ain’t said yes yet. This’s fer two, and I gotta go talk t’Ami—” He stopped, looking at the faintly guilty expression she wore. “Ye already did, didn’ ye?”

  She sucked on her lower lip and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

  He didn’t know whether to be cross or amused. But amused was a lot less trouble than cross. “Wimmin,” he sighed. “I dunno why I’m a-tellin’ ye ’bout tuggin’ yer pa ’round, an’ makin’ ’im inter yer game-piece, when wimmin do thet natural as breathin’.”

  She gave him an affronted look. “No we don’t!”

  “I ain’t a-gonna argue. ’Tis too bleedin’ hot t’argue. All right, ye kin tell yer pa we’re gonna go get trotted ’round like a couple’a breed-horses at ’is stupid party. When is’t?”

  “Three days from now,” she said, and kissed his cheek before she stood up. “Thank you, Mags.”

  “Don’ thenk me,” he replied, turning his attention back to the chronicle he’d been picking through. “I’m figgerin’ t’get plenny outa this. Le’s jest ’ope th’ ’eat breaks afore then, or there’ll be folks pickin’ fights there too.”

  18

  Bad enough that the heat hadn’t broken, but Mags was going to have a to really push it to keep from looking like some sort of rude boor by turning up late for the wretched thing that Marchand had arranged.

  He’d said yes assuming it was one of those evening concerts Marchand liked to stage. Which would have been just fine, no trouble at all. But it wasn’t. It started with a party in the garden—a garden that was supposed to be something special even by highborn standards, with all sorts of cooling fountains and water features. Then dinner would be served at dusk, the fountains would be hushed, lanterns would be floated on the still surface of the water features, and Marchand would perform.

  One small problem. Or not so small, since Mags didn’t want to look as if he didn’t care when the event was taking place. Classes were going to go practically right up to the time Marchand’s “little gathering” was supposed to start; Mags was going to have just enough time to change into his good set of Grays before throwing himself on Dallen and literally galloping down to the event. Of course Marchand had not bothered to see what Mags’ schedule was before setting the time of the gathering . . .

  If he’d been taking Amily pillion on Dallen as he always had before, this would have been impossible. But Amily had told him that she didn’t mind going ahead of him, especially since Marchand was supplying her with a carriage and a burly footman to get her into and out of it.

  So all he needed to worry about was getting himself down there. And it turned out there actually was a legitimate connection with him, and an equally legitimate reason why Marchand might be doing him, and the highborn, mutual favors. This was the home of one of Marchand’s highborn patrons, an avid—one might almost say fanatic—follower of Kirball. Fanatic enough that he was supplying horses to the Riders in the interest of having the best possible games to watch.

  Now, supplying horses to one team was one thing; Lord Wess’s father was doing it for Mag’s team because his son was on it. But supplying horses to all four? That argued for someone who really was interested in the game as a pure game,and wanted to make sure that one team didn’t win over another because of superior “equipment.” Mags was very interested to meet this man and talk to him.

  It would be a fantastic change from talking, and thinking, about potential killers.

  Mags sprinted through the furnace-heat from his last class to the stables. It felt as if he were wearing his Kirball armor, the heat weighed him down so much. It also felt as if he were running in a dream, the sort where you are running as fast as you can and getting nowhere at all.

  Dallen was already saddled and waiting; the grooms had done as they promised. Mags dashed past his Companion into his room. He’d laid his good Grays out this morning. By his own mental reckoning, he was right on time. He shed his trews and tunic, washed himself down with tepid water from the basin on the stand, and pulled on the trews. Yes. He was going to be right on time.

  Right on time—until he heard an ominous rumble in the distance.

  He was only half-clothed, but he stuck his head out the window anyway—to see storm clouds the color of crows’ wings boiling up out of the West. And the next moment, a blast of cold, damp air gushed across the stableyard, dropping the temperature from “oven” to “wine cellar” in next to no time.

  Even as he watched, feeling a bit stunned, an enormous lightning bolt slammed into the ground in the distance, and thunder rolled and rumbled and shook the building.

  Oh . . . hell.

  ::We are not going to beat that, not even if we left this moment,:: Dallen observed.

  ::Beat it? We’d be bare lucky not t’drown.::

  The clouds raced toward them as he pulled his head in and the shutters closed, then finished dressing, taking his time, making sure that every tie was tied and every hem was neat, while more thunder shook the stable and grew louder as the storm grew nearer. Because there was absolutely no point in rushing now.

  I’m a-gonna look like I don’ care other folks gotta wait fer me. Or wuss, like I was a-waitin till ev’body was there so’s I could make some kinda grand entrance. Dammit.

  Then again . . . the gathering was supposed to be in the garden. Outside. And everyone at that party, if they had not noticed the clouds boiling up, had certainly heard the thunder and felt that blast of cold air. Right now people in expensive clothing that they did not want ruined would be making a headlong dash for shelter. Things would be utterly confused for a good long time . . . probably wouldn’t be
sorted out until he got there. With luck, he might even be able to slip in without a fuss.

  Wind rattled the shutters and the first gush of rain hit them as he dug out his voluminous raincape and wrapped it around himself. It had flaps that he could tie around his legs to keep them more-or-less dry, and he did so. The oiled canvas was stiff, but he wasn’t going to have to perform any acrobatic maneuvers in it, just get himself up into Dallen’s saddle.

  Dallen laid his ears back when he saw Mags. ::I wish there were one of those for me.::

  ::Oh, hush. Do that thing ye did when ye shed alla thet dirt.::

  ::You weren’t supposed to notice that.:: One of the grooms pulled a door open. Rain poured in, and Dallen, still with his ears flat, cantered out into it.

  ::Aye, well, there’s a lotta thet goin’ ’round.::

  It was like standing under a waterfall. Or—well, Mags had never actually done that, so it was what he imagined standing under a waterfall would be like. He was glad that the cape had a hood and he had tied said hood up, because otherwise the rain would have just poured in through the neckhole of this thing. Lightning lashed overhead, and the thunder was almost continuous. He couldn’t hear anything.

  ::Mebbe I should git ye a cane t’feel yer way.::

  ::Just remind me how much better this is than the oven we had this morning,:: Dallen replied, keeping up the pace.

  ::Oh . . . gods. This is so much better nor th’ oven we ’ad this morn,:: he replied, with deep feeling. Cold. He was actually cold. It was glorious. And his headache had completely vanished with the first chill blast of wind.

  They passed the gate and the Gate Guards, who huddled in their own raincapes, with warm light showing at the open door. They waved at Mags, grinning. They must have felt the same—maybe more so. Guard uniforms were dark blue, not the best color in the heat, and they hadn’t been given leave to wear as little as they could.