Mags helped her to a chair, and they all gathered around her; given the mix of excitement and alarm in her voice, the importance of what she was going to say probably transcended any hurt feelings.
“You know that fuss that was raised late this afternoon?” she asked.
Bear and Lena nodded, Mags only shook his head. “Practice,” he pointed out. “An’ then I come straight here, after dinner.”
“Well, it was trade envoys from Seejay arriving,” Amily said breathlessly.
All of them frowned, since that was where the troublemakers of the winter had—
“And they were shocked to hear that there had been trade envoys from Seejay here this winter!” she continued. “Especially since those envoys didn’t come with a Royal Charter!”
Mags sucked on his lower lip. “Well, we’d already reckoned they wasn’t what they said they was,” he pointed out. “So what was they?”
Amily shook her head. “The new envoys didn’t know. Lady Adetha’s daughter—you know, the one that’s so good at drawing and painting—was even called to bring the sketches she’d made of them while they were here, and the envoys didn’t recognize them. Not at all. And their clothing was nothing like what these new envoys are wearing. By tomorrow, this is going to be all over the place, Mags, and people are going to be asking questions all over again.”
“Of course they are,” Mags sighed. Because there was one big question that no one had been able to answer.
Why had that crazed assassin taken one look at him and exclaimed “You aren’t supposed to be here?”
Sure enough, first thing in the morning, even before breakfast, a page from the Palace was tapping on his door.
He’d been expecting it, of course; Rolan had warned Dallen, who had gotten him up early. He’d put on his best set of ordinary Grays, and followed the page up to the Palace in a state of dread and resignation.
He was ushered into a small room crowded with people; there was a throne there, and the King was on it; he was surrounded by Guardsmen bristling with weapons and resentment, and besides the Guardsmen, Nikolas and the entire Council were there.
And so was a group of dignified looking men and one woman, all in long robe-like garments that at first glance were very unimpressive—
Until you realized, at second glance, that the subdued colors of their garments were woven in patterns so intricate that Mags had never seen anything like them in his life, and the threads that composed the fabric could not possibly have been thicker than a human hair.
One thing was certain. Their costumes looked nothing at all like those of the arrogant “merchant princes” who had so abused the Crown’s hospitality.
They all studied him, as he stood there awkwardly. Everyone studied him. The Guards studied him in a way that suggested that some of them hoped he might try and bolt so that they could bring him down.
“Well, my lords?” the King said, when the uncomfortable silence had stretched on for far, far too long.
“Is beink chust ordinary boy, Highness,” one of the envoys said with a shrug. “Is lookink nossink like anyone ve know uff.”
“Not like some notorious assassin? Infamous thief?” Mags almost cast a sharp glance at the King, for even if his Councilors didn’t detect the edge of sarcasm to his words, Mags certainly did.
“He is not beink look effen like native of our land, nor those around it,” the Envoy said firmly. “He is beink little and dark, and ve are beink large and golden.”
Well that was certainly true.
“He is not beink look like Shin’a’in, either,” the woman observed. “They are beink dark, but tall. Werry tall.”
The King spread his hands and turned to his Councilors. “There, you see?”
“This only proves that the real envoys from Seejay don’t recognize this Trainee as looking like anyone they know, Majesty,” said the Seneschal, with reluctance. “And we still do not know where the false envoys came from.”
“And I prefer to believe that poor Mags is the victim of that old saw, that everyone has a double somewhere,” Nikolas put in.
The King laughed. “The most likely explanation that comes to my mind is that we don’t actually know what the assassin thought he saw. The man was mad, and he might have been hallucinating. For all we know, he looked at Mags and saw his brother, his mother, or his worst enemy.”
“And how likely is that?” the Seneschal asked, pulling on his beard a little.
“Very likely.” The Head of the Healer’s Circle had been mostly hidden by the others until he spoke. “Hallucinations of this sort are a common component of a deep level of insanity. There are even cases of people murdering beloved members of their families, convinced that the people trying to help them are mortal enemies, or demonic entities. I have known of sufficiently mad women who murdered their own infants, certain that the children had been taken away and demons left in the cradle.”
“I’m satisfied,” the King said. “You can go, Trainee Mags. Thank you for coming.”
Mags bowed himself out hastily. So far as he was concerned, he couldn’t get out of that room fast enough.
The team was waiting for him in the corridor, though not looking particularly anxious. Well that was the advantage of being Grays; your Companions kept you abreast of what was going on. Thank goodness. Pip punched him lightly on the arm, and Gennie threw him a smile, but nobody said anything until they all got inside and were seated.
“So?” asked Bear.
He told them what had happened. Or, more precisely, what had not happened.
Gennie raised her eyebrows. “Well, that’s interesting, but it doesn’t prove or disprove anything except that those men were lying, and we already knew that.”
Mags nodded—then thought of something. “Mebbe one thing. They didn’ seem ter recognize me, nor think I looked like summun else.”
“True, true,” said Pip. “Hmm. Well, put this in a logic tree.” Pip, began tracing an invisible diagram on the table with his finger. “The real envoys didn’t recognize Mags. The fakes didn’t recognize Mags, but they did know him after being here a while. The assassin who was working with the fakes, did. Why?”
“Could be we’ve been looking at this all backwards,” Halleck said slowly. “Well, there’s three possibilities. The first is what the Healer said. He was out of his head. That’s the likeliest, and he could have thought Mags was anybody. I mean ‘You’re not supposed to be here—’ that sound more like what someone says when he sees someone who really isn’t supposed to be there, that it’s impossible for the person he thinks he sees to be there.”
“All right, and the other two?” Pip prompted as Mags listened intently.
“It could be the killer was from somewhere else, and actually recognized Mags as looking like someone he knew... but then you have to wonder why he was working for the fakes and how they found him. So the next likeliest is that the fakes told him about Mags, the killer went and had a look at him, did everything he could to keep Mags from finding Bear, and when he did anyway, had that reaction. That’s even more likely if he was expecting the fakes to get rid of Mags. After all, Bear is Mags’ best friend. If there was anyone likely to fight like a wildcat to save him, it would be Mags. So obviously, you wouldn’t want Mags to find him.”
Pip nodded. “And there’s nothing mysterious or sinister about that.”
“Why would the fakes wanta get rid ’a me?” Mags asked—then answered his own question. “Because I shamed ’em, they’re bullies, and fellers like that likes t’ get even.”
“Exactly.” Pip spread his hands. “Easy explanation, and you know what they say, the simplest answer is generally the right one.” He grabbed a plate of bacon and began shoveling it onto the plates of the others. “So let’s eat. I’m starving. We’ll let the nags discuss it among themselves, then pass it off to their Chosen.”
:Nag? I heard that!:
It was as if the gods were trying to muck up his life as badly as possible. T
he timing for this could not possibly have been worse. But he’d promised... and he wasn’t going to go back on a promise. Especially not now.
As always, the team was waiting for him to escort him into lunch. He approached them with his head hunched down. They weren’t going to like this.
“Where’s Lena? And Bear?” asked Gennie, craning her neck to see if they were somewhere in the corridor behind him.
Mags took a deep breath. “Lena got bumped on her Contest; she’s comin’ up right now an’ Bear got called away. That Councilor Chamjey is s’pposed t’ be answerin’ charges, an’ he took sick; reg’lar Healers can’t make heads nor tails of it, an’ they called Bear, so he’s down in city. We both promised Lena we’d be watchin’ her Contest. . . .”
He trailed off, just as Herald Setham approached their table.
“Mags, Dallen said you needed to speak with me?”
Mags blurted it all out a second time. “So—I know ’tis practice—” he said desperately. “But—”
“Hang all that, Lena’s our friend too!” said Gennie, her eyes flashing. “Herald Setham, we’ll make up the practice after supper, permission for the team to support Trainee Lena?”
Setham snorted. “You’d be damn poor friends if you hadn’t asked for it. Of course.”
Mags’ heart leapt—Gennie slapped him on the back, and the group of them surged down the hall and out the door. If anyone had been taking notes, how they surged might have given them pause, for they moved as a unit, without anyone getting in anyone else’s way... they really were a team, more and more as time went on.
They arrived at the Assembly Hall, where the Contest was taking place; Mags was the first one in, and he knew immediately that Lena was in trouble.
The Hall was absolutely silent, and Lena stood white-faced on the stage, clutching a lap-harp, with all eyes turned to her expectantly.
And it was clear she couldn’t move. She was terrified, and she had forgotten the words of what she was supposed to sing.
And Mags saw why at a single glace.
Right in front, sitting at the Judge’s table, was her father, Bard Tobias Marchand.
Looking unutterably bored, as if there was anywhere in the world he would rather be than there. Which was probably the case.
Oh bloody hell.
He didn’t even think; he just acted. Gathered his mind, and “shouted” at her.
:Lena!:
She jumped a little, unfroze, and her eyes darted frantically around the room until he caught and held her gaze.
:Deep breath,: he said. :Close yer eyes.:
Convulsively, she did both.
:We’re here. Th’ whole team’s here. We’re b’hind ye. Now—le’s make out like ye meant t’ start this way. Deep breath.:
She gulped in another. He didn’t say a thing about her Father. The last thing he wanted to do was make her freeze up again.
:Now, quiet. Real quiet. Make ’em strain t’ hear ye. When rose the pole-star bright... :
She knew the song, of course, it was the Midwinter Song. Everyone knew the song. She’d probably have points deducted for choosing so common a song, but that was better than failing because she froze.
Her voice whispered out over the crowd, sweet, a little melancholy, soft. Sweet enough that, though it was scarcely more than a whisper, people leaned forward to hear her.
With each verse, as each of the birds in the song added its voice to the Midwinter Call, her voice strengthened. And finally, with her eyes still closed, she added the fingering of the harp to the song as she came to the final verse, her voice soaring in triumphant rejoicing over the notes that fell like drops of melting ice in the warmth of the newly risen sun.
From the rear, the team broke out in wild applause, joined a heartbeat afterwards by the rest of the room.
Now she opened her eyes; caught Mags’ gaze, and mouthed the words “Thank you!”
Then she flushed and ran off the stage before the judges could dismiss her.
“All right,” Setham said, as the applause subsided. “That’s over with, and there is still plenty of time for practice. Move out, Team South! Quick time to the field! Let’s see those heels of yours.”
“Yes sir!” they all said, and hustled out of the room before he decreed any penalty for the last one on the field.
It was a particularly spirited practice, and one in which Mags was moving too fast to even think about Lena or Bear. The rest of the team played with exceptional energy and exuberance, and it was clear that they all were taking credit for Lena’s performance.
Damn right they should. He swelled with pride over it. She had seen them, and he knew it had made a difference to her. She’d been able to forget her father for a moment when she realized the entire team was there for her, not just him and Bear—even Herald Setham.
She wasn’t going to get great marks for this, he was pretty sure about that. She wouldn’t have fooled any of the judges about her stage-fright, and she hadn’t managed to unfreeze enough to play the harp until the end. The song itself was simple and didn’t show off much of anything except her lovely voice. No, she wasn’t going to come in at the top of the Contest.
But she wouldn’t be at the bottom, either.
When practice finished, they discovered that Herald Setham sent up the hill for food to replace the luncheon none of them had eaten. Swigging flasks of sweet, cold tea and munching on sausage rolls, they headed back up to the Collegium for their next classes or duties, all of them looking forward to seeing Lena at supper.
Mags was a little delayed by a note from Amily, asking him to meet her in the Heraldic Archives, and by the time he got to the dining hall, the team had surrounded Lena, though Bear was nowhere in sight.
“. . . I can’t believe you came out in the middle!” Pip was exclaiming indignantly. “You were so much better than that Bard that sang at my sister’s wedding!”
“Well, it’s a really common song,” Lena said, shyly, and went on to explain everything that Mags had already figured—given how often she had told over the scoring method to him and Bear.
“I still don’t think they scored you fairly,” Pip grumbled, and spotted Mags. “Heyla! Let’s get in there, those sausage rolls are wearing thin, and it’s beef night!”
The room was full of Bardic Trainees, all of them ravenous. Mags had a feeling that Lena was not the only one who’d had an uncertain stomach before the Contest. Several of them still looked a bit green. Some looked triumphant or smug, some looked depressed.
Lena excused herself for a moment and went over to console several of the depressed ones, who had tucked themselves together around an out-of-the-way table. After a moment, Gennie joined her, and soon had them laughing.
When they both returned, and the group took the usual table, Mags gave the girls a look that invited explanation.
Gennie grinned broadly.
“You lot remember that incident with the presentation to the King?” she asked.
Pip rolled his eyes. “I thought you ordered us never to talk about that again?” he replied, mockingly.
“I ordered you never to talk about it again,” she said, thumping him lightly on the top of the head. “And if you do, there will be a reckoning.”
“Well, that’s a double standard if ever I heard one,” Pip grumbled.
Gennie turned to Mags. “It’s pretty simple, I was supposed to present a cup of wine to the King when I was a First Year, at a thing where he was supposed to be giving out prizes for students with poor parents that had been sponsored up here by people like Councilor Soren. I got all tongue-tied, then my feet followed my tongue, I tripped and spilled it all over his Whites. Red wine, of course.”
Pip smothered a laugh. She reached out without looking and thumped him again.
“Gor. That must’ a bin—” Mags shook his head. He could just imagine it. “I’d’a gotten sick on ’is boots t’ cap it off.”
“I nearly did. And that is why the King never drinks anythi
ng but water and white wine in public, even though he loathes white wine,” she said ruefully.
“And now, here you are, the Captain of the Team South Kirball players!” said Halleck.
“Well yes.” She shrugged. “You muddle through somehow—”
“Well I wish someone would help me muddle through,” said Bear, coming wearily up to the table. “I hope one of you saved me some beef. There’s nothing left on the table but burnt ends.”
Wordlessly, Mags pushed over the heaping plate he’d reserved for Bear. It was cold, but Bear didn’t seem to care; he just slapped it between two bread-ends, smothered it in hot-root sauce and tucked in.
“What happened?” Lena asked.
Bear groaned around a bite. “I am mortal sorry I missed your Contest, but I got called away midmorning and I’ve been at ex-Councilor Chamjey’s house since. He was supposed to answer to the Council about those charges—”
“What charges?” asked Gennie, looking surprised.
“Ma—” began Bear, and cut off as Mags kicked him under the table.
Fortunately Pip was more caught up on Court doings than Gennie was. “He was profiteering, or trying to, because of a bad season and a sheep disease,” Pip replied, looking a little smug that he knew something Gennie didn’t. “He basically cornered the market on mutton, lamb, and especially wool. The way he had it, if you’d wanted wool this year, you’d have been buying it from him or not at all, at his prices. He resigned, but when the Council looked into things and discovered just how much he was going to profit, and how much it was going to hurt some of the other Guilds, they decided to bring him up on charges.”
“Huh.” Gennie shook her head. “Now... that’s something I don’t understand. ’Cause no one would have faulted him for finding all this stuff out and making a reasonable profit. But no. He had to get greedy. What’s the point?”
“So what happened?” Pip asked Bear, who washed down an enormous bite with sweetened tea before replying.
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