The wall about the place was plain rough stone. It was there largely to give the priests and acolytes some semblance of peace and privacy rather than to safeguard much of anything. The building within the wall was made of similar rough stone, with plain wooden doors and windows with wooden shutters for harsh weather. There was no way that turf would survive all the traffic, so it had been filled with river gravel and sand. There were benches made of salvaged wood to sit or lie on, and a much-patched swath of canvas had been affixed across the area for shade in the day.
Although it was after lamp-lighting, the courtyard was still playing host to people who were looking for help, either spiritual or physical. The poor folk didn’t have much choice about when they could come to a place like this for help. They were limited to those few hours they had between finishing their work for the day and falling into a weary sleep, so there was actually more activity here in the evening than there was in the day.
The arrival of a Companion caused a bit of a stir and brought one of the Temple acolytes out to find out what was going on before Mags had even dismounted.
“Father Poul asked t’see Mags,” Bear told the brown-robed acolyte shortly. The young man nodded and disappeared back inside the Temple. As with most such places in Haven, Mags was unsurprised to see that the courtyard was in use for many purposes. Some, too poor to afford lamps, candles, or even tallow dips, came here to read or to learn to read or figure. They had their own place, under one of the two courtyard lanterns. The sick and injured waited patiently off on the quietest, darkest side of the yard, and those who were here for reasons not obvious sat on benches in the middle.
Father Poul came out after a bit of a wait; Mags knew him well enough, since he had come down here a time or two in order to give Bear a hand. He was short, slight, and harried. The thinning of his hair might have had more to do with his habit of seizing a handful of it at the scalp when vexed than to balding. Like all the denizens here, he wore a simple brown divided robe. The priest gestured them to a side door in the wall, that looked to lead into a garden. Since his gesture had included Dallen, and the door was big enough to accommodate him, the Companion came too.
It was, indeed, a garden—a very neat and efficiently planned herb and vegetable garden, lit with a single small lantern. That was probably a necessity—if someone came in over the wall, whoever came to investigate would need some light to see by. It didn’t afford any seating to speak of, but it did seem to offer some privacy. Dallen politely backed himself into a space where he wouldn’t trample anything.
Father Poul didn’t waste any time with polite niceties; he came straight to the point. “If what Bear has told me is the truth, you already know why I want to talk to you,” the short, slight priest said firmly. He planted both hands on his hips, in an “I will not tolerate any nonsense” pose.
Mags sighed, wishing he could see the priest’s expression in the gloom. “They want t’ get married. They think it’ll solve some of their prollems. I tol’ ’em that Dallen tol’ me that they prolly ought to, an’ that it’d be easier t’ do it and let things sort themselves out than try an’ get permission. I dunno if it’s gonna solve much, but I trust my Companion, an’ it’ll at least stop Bear’s Pa from tryin’ t’ treat him like a prize breeder. That pretty much what they told you?”
“Your Companion told you this.” Poul made it a statement rather than a question, but Mags answered as if it had been a question.
“Aye. He don’t seem t’mind bendin’ rules, does Dallen,” Mags sighed. “I s’pose since he’s a Companion, people won’t think so bad of him for it.”
Dallen bobbed his head emphatically and pawed the bare dirt with a hoof.
Father Poul huffed out his breath, sounding a little annoyed in the darkness. “I’ve never known a Herald or a Trainee to lie about what their Companion told them—”
Dallen snorted indignantly, and before Mags could stop him, he nipped the priest’s sleeve in his strong teeth and gave the sleeve, arm and all, an admonishing shake.
“Here now! I wasn’t saying he was lying now,” Poul snapped, pulling his sleeve back. Dallen let him have it. He rubbed his hand over his head, seized a handful of hair, and then let it go. “Well, now you’ve presented me with a pretty problem. A Companion advised this. And if they were just a little older, I wouldn’t hesitate. But—”
“You reckon why a Companion would say to do something, eh?” Mags retorted. “Prolly a good reason he can see that we can’t. I reckon I’d listen to ’im if I was you. I tol’ ye, he don’ seem t’mind bendin’ the rules, ’cept Lena’s been checkin’, an’ there ain’t no rules ’bout Trainees gettin’ married. I s’pose there’s rules about young’uns gettin’ married outside of what their folks arrange, but . . .” He shrugged. “Near as I can tell, rules ’bout Trainees not bein’ forced t’get married is the only thing goin’.”
Dallen stamped a hoof to emphasize Mags’ words.
“I can see that I’m not going to shake either of you on this, anyway,” Father Poul said, a little crossly. “I thought perhaps it might have been Bear that persuaded you, on the strength of your friendship, but I can see I was mistaken.”
“Aye,” Mags said shortly. Then added, belatedly, “Sir. An’ it’s gettin’ late, an’ I don’ wanta break the rules about bein’ down in Haven late.”
Dallen shook himself all over and looked pointedly at the door.
“All right, all right, you can go,” said the priest, waving dismissively. “I’ll have to rethink this—you stay,” he added to Bear. “You and I are not done yet. I’ll make it right with your superiors if need be.” He shook his head and muttered, “Even if I have to lie about it.”
Mags made his escape, and while under other circumstances he might have been reluctant to leave Bear in Father Poul’s hands . . . well . . .
In this case, Bear had put himself there.
* * *
Mags was not at all surprised two days later to come into an uproar at dinner and discover that Bear and Lena had done exactly as he advised. The word was all over all three Collegia; gossip was that the two of them had gone straight down to Haven after luncheon and come back a couple of candlemarks later to present themselves as a couple to the Deans. They had been closeted with the heads of the Collegia ever since, and there was a lot of speculation as to what was likely to happen to them.
Mags just held his peace. As he had said, it was very difficult to force a lawfully married couple apart if they didn’t want to be forced apart. Add to that Bear’s situation, and Lena’s, and the fact that Mags knew they would present themselves with a well-thought-out plan for the future, and he figured the conclusion—once everyone exhausted all the shouting and scolding they would feel themselves bound to do—was forgone.
And so it was. Near the end of supper, the two appeared in the dining hall, hand in hand, looking tired but satisfied.
No one had left, of course; everyone knew that the first place they would come would be here, and by this time everyone who could fit inside was in there waiting, including Amily, who was just a little, tiny bit put out with him for not telling her what he had known before this happened.
“You might have said something,” she whispered for the third time, as the buzz of conversation made the room feel much too small.
Finally, he told her the truth. After all, she really deserved the truth, didn’t she? “I didn’t say nothin’, on account of I didn’t have Bear’s leave, and I figgered you’d feel obliged to tell yer pa.”
She opened her mouth to object, her pretty face betraying her obvious irritation, then stopped. She closed her mouth, opened it again, then closed it. The irritation was replaced by thoughtfulness.
Finally she spoke. “I’m still annoyed,” she said. “I see your points, but I am still annoyed.”
“Aye, and
I still didn’t have Bear’s leave,” he countered.
“Did you even ask for it?” Irritation again.
“I figgered if he wanted ye to know, he’d’a tol’ ye himself.” That did seem, at least to him, to be irrefutable logic. “It’s not like he isn’t seein’ ye once every couple of days, aye?”
The irritation was replaced with frustration, because she knew very well he was right. The meetings were even in private, since he was making sure her leg was continuing to heal correctly.
“An’ wouldn’t you have felt obliged t’tell yer pa?” he continued—
:You really are pressing your luck, you know,: Dallen interjected. :You might win the argument, but you might not like the results of winning.:
Fortunately, the arrival of Bear and Lena saved her from having to answer and him from the consequences of that answer.
When they came in, hand in hand, looking triumphant but exhausted, they were swarmed. Mags didn’t even try to get near them, and finally someone took charge of the chaos.
A horn blast from one of the Bardic Trainees (why had he brought a horn to dinner?) brought momentary silence, and into that silence came a bellow in a quite familiar voice.
“Everyone just shut up,” shouted Gennie. In the ensuing quiet there was only the shuffling of feet. “Good. Bear, Lena, would you mind telling us all what the hell you were thinking, running off like that? And what happened today when you got back?”
They looked at each other. Everyone looked at them. Finally Bear coughed. “We were thinking, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than get permission,” he said, quoting Mags and Dallen directly. “You all know what my father keeps trying to do. Lena and I, well, we don’t want anyone else, never have. Where I come from, people younger than me get married off all the time—probably that’s the same for most of you, too. Father Poul down in Haven’s spent the last couple of days pretty much talking us to death, and he reckoned we knew what we were doing, so he married us today, we came up and ’fessed up to the Deans. And that’s it, really.”
“Well, other than that I won’t be Lena Marchand anymore, I’ll be Lena Tyrall,” said Lena when he had finished. “And when I go into Scarlets, I’ll be Bard Tyrall. Which . . . is kind of important to me, even if it doesn’t mean anything to anyone else.”
But there were nods, especially from the Bardic Trainees. Mags didn’t quite get it, but after some whispered explanation from Amily, he began to understand. After all, there already was a “Bard Marchand,” Lena’s now-disgraced father. Even if he had not fallen into disgrace, she would still be forced to compete with him as the “other” Bard Marchand. Not all of his compositions had been stolen from his protégés, and he had a formidable body of work that hers would always be compared to.
Now, she wasn’t competing with him, and except for those who knew who her father was already (not many, relatively speaking), she was not going to be compared more with him than with any other Bard. And now, no one would be associating her name with infamy. This probably would have been less than successful if she had changed her name after she had attained the title of “Bard,” because her Masterwork would have been, perforce, done under her old name.
“As for what happened when we got back, Father Poul came with us, and . . . let’s just say we went through the last couple of days all over again.” Bear sighed, and he squeezed Lena’s hand. “Deans of all three Collegia, and the heads of all three Circles. And the King’s Own and Prince Sedric and Princess Lydia. But it’s all right. They reckon we didn’t run off and do something stupid, we’ll be living in my quarters still, and we’re still Trainees. And let me just say, if that’s how they question a couple of folks who just went off an’ got married, I wouldn’t want to be caught stealin’ so much as a pocket pie.”
That got a laugh. Bear’s fellow trainees had been zealously guarding some dinner for him and Lena, and the two of them were allowed to eat in relative peace, while smaller groups asked them questions. Mags and Amily waited until pretty much everyone else had been satisfied, and Mags brought them over some custard tarts and a pitcher of tea after most of the mob had cleared out.
“Thanks for keeping quiet,” Bear said, when they sat down across from him and Lena. “Nikolas was kinda irritated you hadn’t talked to him, but—” he shrugged. “—even he admitted he’d’ve tried to stop us if he’d known.”
Mags did not say “I told you so” to Amily. He didn’t need Dallen telling him what a bad idea that was.
“Ye know, this ain’t the end of trouble,” he said instead.
“Oh, we know,” Lena replied, since Bear had a mouthful of tart. “We fully expect the fury of hell itself to descend when Bear’s father finds out.” She smiled slyly. “But let’s just say we have a very unexpected weapon on our side.”
4
With all of the wedding business out of the way, Nikolas decided that it was time to reopen the shop down in Haven. He had no doubt that with all of the visitors that had been packed into Haven, it had been a glorious time for thieves, and if there is one thing that thieves require, it is someone who can turn what they stole into money. Nikolas, in the persona of Willy Weasel, already had the reputation for taking in unusual objects no one else would touch because his mute “nephew” could evaluate stones, allowing him to pry them out of settings and sell them without the concern of a piece being recognized. “Unusual jewelry” was how they had caught the assassins before. There was always the hope that the men had neither realized this nor reported it, and this would be an effective way of uncovering more of them.
At this point, Nikolas had decided that it was time for Willy to show some evidence of prosperity in the form of employees. Where Nikolas had found these fellows, Mags had not been able to guess, but they certainly looked villainous enough. When Nikolas had taken him down to the shop before the wedding, he’d blinked at the sight of them; big, grizzled, scowling, they were twins for some of the mine guards.
“Are ye sure you can trust ’em?” he’d asked Nikolas, aghast. That was when Nikolas had laughed and told him that they were actor friends of his, retired now from their profession, but more than willing to put in “short performances” at night at the shop.
That had eased Mags’ mind a great deal. Nikolas had never once made a mistake with his actors, and Mags very much doubted he had this time, either.
They knew exactly what to say when something that looked important came in the shop door. “Willy” would not give them the authority to buy more than the most trivial of goods, however, nor purchase information, and no one would be surprised at that. Anyone with any sense would probably figure that “Willy” kept most of the shop money locked up somewhere and only doled out the little they needed to run the place in his absence. This meant anyone with anything of note to sell would have to wait until Willy and his nephew turned up.
This was a profound relief to Mags; it meant he and Nikolas only needed to put in an appearance for a few candlemarks every few days and not spend every night down at the shop. That had been exhausting, even with all of Mags’ instructors doing their best to accommodate his schedule.
It also meant that instead of waiting for those potential clues to come in, he and Nikolas could have them turning up when they wanted. So if there was any appearance of danger, well . . . they could arrange for the danger to have a terrible surprise.
Mags didn’t expect any suspicion to arise from this change in the shop schedule. It was entirely within the realm of believability that the Weasel had managed to make a big score. No one would be in the least surprised at the Weasel delegating the running of his shop, if he had managed to come into money. The Weasel was known for his sharp dealings, not for being so miserly that he begrudged the spending of so much as a pin more than he needed to. Nikolas had carefully manufactured a persona of a man who did not begrudge himself smal
l luxuries or indulgences.
Being able to do something other than stand behind the protected counter of his own shop every night was one of those things every shopkeeper hoped for, one day.
Mags was not altogether certain he was looking forward to their first foray down in Haven again, however. He had the feeling that Nikolas had a few things to say to him about Lena and Bear.
* * *
“I have a few things I would like to discuss with you about Lena and Bear, Mags.”
The shop was quiet, which was not at all surprising. The first lot of people with something valuable to get rid of had almost been lining up at the door, waiting for the Weasel. Almost, because they had trickled in slowly over the first couple of candlemarks, probably scouting first to make sure no one was lying in wait, hoping to ambush a fellow thief while he was carrying something good.
And the wedding had, indeed, brought a wealth of small, valuable items into Haven, if what had been spread out for the Weasel’s perusal was anything to judge by. Nothing that would impress a highborn, of course; no one who came to the Weasel was that good or lucky a thief. But there was a lot of real silver and real semiprecious or poorly cut precious gems.
When anything had gems in it, the Weasel passed it over to his mute “nephew” for grading. Mags passed a practiced eye over it, graded the stones, scribbled the grade on a bit of slate and passed both back. The Weasel never paid jewelry value, of course, only metal and stone—because if he really had been a pawnbroker and a fence, he would never have kept any of it intact; he would pry the stones out, melt the piece down, and dispose of the things that way.
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