Well, that was just like Nikolas; any chance he had to make an honest man’s life a little better, he went out of his way to arrange.
“Huh,” Mags said, and shrugged. “Note here from the boss, says you’re redeemin’ yer tools t’day. Some kinda mistake, guess he was overchargin’ ye or summat, so ye don’ owe past this last payment.”
He pulled the couple of copper coins over into the cash drawer, then went to get the carpenter’s chest of tools. It was a nice one, but it should be, since such a chest provided a display of the carpenter’s skill. Nothing fancy though, no inlay work or carvings.
Well, that was going to change, if he was up to it. A Master woodworker had all sorts of skills, and more skill meant more and better jobs. There must not have been anyone at the Temple with the inclination or ability for the old man to pass on his heritage, for him to be willing to teach someone outside the brotherhood.
Mags unlocked and unbarred the door and handed over the chest. The carpenter took it with a face full of happiness, his hands almost caressing the wood. “Didja hear ’bout that buildin’ that’s goin’ on over at Temple of Rusal?” Mags asked casually. “Puttin’ in either a new wing or a second floor, I ferget which, an’ they’re gonna hire outside th’ Temple.”
The carpenter paused. “No?” he said a little doubtfully. “You certain ’bout that? I’d’a thought I’d’a heard ’bout it afore this . . .”
“Eh, I wouldn’t’ve heard it if it ain’t fer the story that come with it!” With great relish Mags related the tale of the trouncing of Healer Tyrall, as he himself had heard it from one of the Constables. The tale had grown in the telling.
In fact, the tale had grown to a domestic epic.
Take Bear’s father—Healer Tyrall had been painted in the broad strokes of a real villain, something of a monster, really. According to the story, it wasn’t that Tyrall wanted Bear home breeding little Healers, it was—
Well, the story went that Bear was some sort of miracle worker with herbs. This, of course, was a very valuable skill so far as ordinary folk were concerned, because you couldn’t always get a Healer, but you could get hold of a ’pothecary, or, here in Haven, you could go begging up at the Collegium and get herbal physick for nothing. Quite a number of people down here in Haven actually knew Bear because of that. Either they’d gotten medicine directly from him, or they’d benefited from the newly acquired skills of someone he had taught. So people were inclined to believe what Bear’s own father did not—that his ability with herbs was a sort of Gift.
Now, according to the story the Constable had told, Healer Tyrall was a venial and greedy man. This was believable indeed, since even down here, people knew about the abduction, how Healer Cuburn had venially and greedily sold information to the assassins about the comings and goings on the Hill, and people knew Cuburn had been Tyrall’s man.
So it made sense to them that Tyrall was incensed that Bear was tending to the poor rather than making him wealthy by using his skills on the rich.
So they believed the embroidered version, that Tyrall was not only going to break up the lovers, he was going to drag Bear back to a drafty old tower, lock him in, and put him to a sort of slave labor making potions for the highborn to keep them young.
The carpenter listened, rapt. All this was news to him. But he nodded at all the right places and looked angry at all the right places, which encouraged Mags to believe that just about everyone that wasn’t actually up on the Hill was going to take this version at face value.
Tyrall certainly had not done himself any favors by thundering through Haven on horseback with a troupe of mercenaries in tow. There were lots of witnesses to that . . . and probably no few people who hadn’t been anywhere near but would swear they had seen it and, moreover, had seen Tyrall and his flunkies trample children, kittens, and puppies in his mad race up to the Palace.
At this point, it was Father Poul who became the hero of the story.
According to the story, it was Father Poul who had urged the pair to wed in order to keep Tyrall from exerting paternal force over his son. It was Father Poul who had stood at the gate, crook in hand, and took on not only Tyrall but half of his mercenaries, beating them into submission with nothing more than his crook; and it was Father Poul who had stoutly defended Bear and Lena to the Collegia, speaking on their behalf for candlemarks until his voice was scarcely more than a croak.
Father Poul would likely never recognize himself.
“Anyroad, Guard figgered any’un thet would do all thet must’ve got god-touched or somethin’, plus the Healer-boy helped them out a powerful lot over the past couple years, so they raised the pelf fer some more work on th’ Temple,” Mags concluded. This last was the only unvarnished truth. The Guard had so much admiration for the crusty old priest that they decided he needed to be rewarded, and since he wouldn’t accept a reward for himself, they donated it to an expansion of the Temple of Rusal. Father Poul could scarcely turn that down, after all. “Reckon there’s gonna be work there.”
“I reckon there is, since I ain’t heard about it yet, an’ that means prolly no one else’ll get there afore me,” the carpenter said with glee. “Thenkee, Harkon!”
Mags closed and locked the door, dropped the bar across it, went to the window, and made a disparaging noise. “Eh, don’t thank me, make some money an’ come back ‘ere and pick up that set’a wood chisels ol’ man Greyer went an’ left ’ere when ’e died wi’out payin’ it out!” He spat. “I ain’t gonna hear the last of that outa the boss until summun buys th’ damned things, an’ I’m likelier t’get King’s Own comin’ through that door than summun what does fancy carvin’.”
The carpenter laughed. “I might just do thet,” he agreed, and he hurried out the door. It was early enough in the evening that the Temple would still be a hive of activity, and unless Mags was very much mistaken, the man was going to present himself and his chest of tools as someone in need of work before the night got much older.
Mags went back to musing. The bell jangled again, but this time it was neither a thief nor a regular customer. Instead, it was a fellow who nodded at Mags, passed by the used clothing and old linens, the heavy items that would take a very determined man indeed to steal, and went browsing among the trinkets and small items meant for ladies. Or at least, what passed for ladies in this part of town. When the choice was go hungry or without a bed or to look for someone willing to buy a few moments of sex, well . . . you survived how you could, around here. And that didn’t mean that someone, somewhere, wouldn’t want to give you a present, no matter who your legs had been wrapped around last week.
In the mathematics of survival, if there was someone willing to pay for something you had, you sold it, and there was no shame on either side.
Some of the trinkets were, quite frankly, stolen—usually the kerchiefs and scarves of finer quality fabric than was affordable by the folk of these streets and the metal jewelry with paste jewels. Some was not. There were bits of jewelry carved of wood, river shell, bone or common stone that was honest work. Among the ornaments were necklaces he was actually a little proud of that he himself had made, round horsehair braids with a single pretty bead strung on them. He picked out the beads from the broken stuff the Weasel had taken in, things that didn’t have a full set to remake into a necklace. These pieces, like the others, were not valuable enough to lock up, but they were good enough to make a girl feel special—and well made enough to make her feel special for a good long time. And just as important, they were new. People down here didn’t see much that was new, they couldn’t afford it. Give a girl from here a brand new necklace, and she’d feel like Princess Lydia.
Mags was the one who braided those necklaces, a skill he had learned thanks to Dallen. Companion-hair braids were sought-after tokens among the friends of Heralds and Trainees. The first Midwinter he’d been here at
the Collegium, he’d despaired of coming up with presents for his friends, and Dallen had gone into his head and patiently taught him how to make the tight, intricate braids to fashion into necklets, bracelets, bookmarks, and even a set of falcon jesses. The same skill worked equally well on horsehair, and since reading while he was in the shop was out of the question, making the necklaces kept him from being bored to death. With a pretty bead strung on them, they looked very nice indeed.
What would make Amily feel special? If there was anyone who had no need of any more Companion-hair anything, it was Amily.
When it came right down to it, there wasn’t much he could give Amily. She had virtually everything she needed. If she wanted anything, she never showed it and had never actually told him.
“Why do they have t’be so complicated?” he sighed, staring at the necklaces, and he didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until the potential customer looked up, startled.
“What?” the man said.
Mags sighed again. “Wimmen,” he replied.
“You said it, brother,” the customer agreed fervently, and they shared a look of complete understanding and universal brotherhood that, in that moment, crossed the barriers of merchant and customer, Trainee and citizen, privileged and poor, boy and man.
They both enjoyed it for a good long moment, and finally Mags was the one who broke the spell.
“Well,” he said. “Whasser hair an’ eyes?”
“Brown,” the customer said. “Why?”
“Carved wood bead, brown cord, like that there carved wood rose. Or mebbe amber. Think I got a amber up there too. Them as gots brown hair allus likes somethin’ what goes with their eyes. Blondes, they like somethin’ thet stands out, so anythin’ on black horsehair. An if’n ye got a redhead, she wants somethin’ thet makes ’er ’air look good, so red, like thet there red glass bit.” He sighed. “Wisht th’ rest uv what they likes was easier to reckon out.”
“You an’ me both,” said the man, as he separated out the amber and brown horsehair necklace, and a red beaded one for good measure, and paid for both. “You an’ me both.”
* * *
Mags set off over the rooftops, but he had a distinctly uneasy feeling as he did so. He couldn’t get over the feeling that someone was watching him. More than once he stopped, cautiously dropped his shields, and “looked” for anyone who might be up here—because it was possible that a real thief was up here too, had seen a fellow roof-runner, and wanted to be sure he wouldn’t be interfered with in his chosen target. But every time he stopped and closed his eyes and searched through all the nearby thoughts for someone whose mind was full of the night, the rooftops, and possibly himself, he found nothing. Nothing but those who were dreaming and those few who were still awake and working. He got flashes of someone laboring over sewing, a potter tending a kiln by night, some people making buttons of wood and river shell, some children carving spoons, someone knitting, spinning, weaving . . . the sensation of working until the worker simply couldn’t keep his or her eyes open anymore. Mags knew that feeling, and, oh, how he sympathized. All of these except the potter were indoors, in attic and garret rooms. No one was so much as glancing out an open window
He didn’t dare let that feeling of being watched distract him up here. One slip, and he could very well end up in a bad situation. He concentrated on the placement of his hands and feet, on his knowledge of his roof-road, and on where he was going to land next.
It wasn’t until he neared the inn where Dallen’s stable and the disguise room were that he felt that sensation drop away. He wasn’t relieved. He hadn’t liked that feeling at all, and he liked still less the idea that his own mind was playing tricks on him.
:You didn’ pick up anything, did you?: he asked Dallen, as he slipped down the inn roof and dropped directly down into the courtyard instead of coming in from the alley as he and Nikolas usually did when they were together.
:Not a thing. You know, it could have been an animal.:
Mags snorted as he unlocked the disguise room. :An animal? No critter’s ever made the hair on the back of m’neck stand up like that afore.:
But Dallen was quite serious. :You’ve never seen some of the things that come out of the Pelagirs. And the closer to human intelligence an animal is, the more likely it is that it would be able to get this far into Valdemar without detection.:
Well . . . he had heard all those stories about the Hawkbrothers. It hadn’t been that long ago that there had been a Hawkbrother ambassador or two, making a brief visit under the auspices of Herald Vanyel . . . Was there a chance that one could have slipped across the Border in disguise?
:That’s exactly what I mean. We just had a very major event here, the wedding of the Heir. That event might have brought a Hawkbrother here just to see how we’ve been faring. And some of the Hawkbrothers fly owls. Or it is just possible that one of the Hawkbrother Bondbirds was somehow blown here by a storm, or unusual weather. If they aren’t bonded to a particular person, there’s no accounting for what one might do.:
Mags carefully removed the streaks in his hair and coiled them into their container. :Seems pretty unlikely to me. We ain’t heard nothin’ from them Hawkbrothers for years, so why would they care now? It ain’t as if they’re blood relatives or nothin’. They got their lands, we got ours, peace between us, so that’s all there is. An’ I’d think a big old hawk or owl’d find the pickings pretty slim in a town. Crow mebbe, or raven, but they don’t fly at night..:
Dallen clearly was not convinced, but he also seemed disinclined to argue the point. :I’m just saying that it could have been a preternaturally intelligent animal. Or, for all you know, a ghost.:
The hair went up on the back of Mags’ head again. Of all the things he did not want to hear about, ghosts were on top of the list. He hated ghost stories. He could never imagine why a ghost would linger, except to get revenge on the living. And how could you stop a ghost? They could walk through walls, they could slip up on you and you would never know it, they could steal your breath while you slept. :Oh, no. Don’t you go puttin’ no haunt stories in my head! I wanta sleep t’night!:
He hastily poured himself a basin full of water and began vigorously washing his face and head, trying to wash away the thought of ghosts. Why, oh, why had Dallen said that? He knew how Mags felt!
:Mags, you have to remember that if it is a ghost, it has no connection to you,: Dallen admonished. Dallen knew how he felt about ghosts. :I have never heard of a ghost hurting anyone in Valdemar. I’ve never even heard of one that had a reason to hurt someone—revenge—being able to. All they ever seem to do is, well, haunt. I don’t think they can hurt you—not like the Karsite demons can.:
:Oh, thank you, ye bloody sadist!: he groaned. All right, there was something he was more afraid of than ghosts. Karsite demons. The first time he’d learned about them in history class, he had scarcely been able to close his eyes that night. :Now ye got me thinkin’ ’bout ghosts and demons! I ain’t gonna be able t’ sleep all night!:
He pulled on his clothing in a bit of a temper. Dallen knew how he felt about these things! And Dallen should bloody well know that trying to reassure him about them was only going to make him think about them more! He stamped his boots into place on his feet with more energy than was strictly necessary and wrenched the door to Dallen’s stall open, glaring at him. The Companion gazed back at him, and if he could judge these things, Dallen was not in the least repentant.
“I should put a buckwheat groat under yer saddle,” he said, crossly. “I really should. And ride ye all the way up the Hill with it there.”
:Oh, come now,: Dallen replied, as he threw the Companion’s tack onto him and cinched and buckled it down. :I’ve done you a favor.:
“A favor?” he exclaimed, as he mounted, and Dallen headed for the door into the stable. He ducked a litt
le to pass under the top of the doorframe. “A favor? An’ just how did ye do me a favor, exactly? By makin’ sure I’ll have nightmares for the next week?”
:First, you can’t keep avoiding the subject of spirits and demons if you are going to go out in the field as a Herald, so you might as well get used to the fact that they exist. Second, I kept you from fretting yourself in circles over Amily for almost a quarter candlemark.:
“I’d ruther fret about Amily,” he growled.
:Well, I suppose now you’ll be fretting about both.: Dallen’s logic was inescapable. :Anyway, we know it’s not a demon, and it probably isn’t a ghost. So rest easy.:
“Then I hope at least I don’t have nightmares. Sadist.”
6
The next three days, Mags was not on shop duty, which pleased him a very great deal. Nikolas didn’t get in anything that “needed” the deaf-mute’s skills with gemstones, so he didn’t ask Mags to come down, and he and his two friends could easily handle the rest of the business that came in the door. Or at least, that was his story. Mags had a feeling that the King’s Own had gotten an earful from his daughter about monopolizing what little free time he had. On the one hand, he appreciated it. He could never bring himself to ask Nikolas for any favors for himself, much less tell his mentor that he was feeling strained and stretched and would like him to ease off. But on the other hand, he felt distinctly uneasy about the idea of Amily going to her father with demands that he give Mags less work.
Not that this would have stopped Nikolas from demanding Mags’ presence if he actually had needed him there. Mags’ skill at identifying stones had enhanced the Weasel’s reputation, and Nikolas was not about to sacrifice that. But the purpose of going to the shop with Nikolas had always been primarily so that Nikolas could tutor Mags in the art of holding to a persona and disguise, and the mere fact that he was now tending the shop on his own was proof that Nikolas thought he had managed that particular lesson well enough that he didn’t need supervision anymore. Or, at least, he didn’t need the supervision in the personas of the deaf-mute and the cocky little thug.
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