Intrigues v(cc-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  As ever, Mags methodically ate whatever was nearest, without regard to its condition; it was all so tasteless to him it might as well have been dead grass. He ate to keep his stomach from complaining, to get him through another day. But there was no reason to be as fixated on food as the boy was.

  :Mags!:

  He started, and checked his mental wall as the boy looked at him curiously for a moment, then fell back to eating. The wall was still there. There was no way that Dallen could have breached it.

  :Mags, come home!:

  How was Dallen talking to him? Never mind, this needed to be put to a stop.

  No! he thought and :No!: he shouted back. :I’m—ye need t’ stop this, Dallen! Ye need t’ cut me off!:

  There was no reply, only the sense of stuporous slumber again. Mags shook his head. He must have imagined it. Or else, he’d half fallen asleep, sitting here, and dreamed it.

  Or else he was going crazy. This was not at all unlikely, actually. Being insane would actually be something of a relief. If he could blame the way he had hurt Dallen and treated Lena on insanity, well... it might ease his guilt a little.

  Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, he thought, up to his elbows in soapy hot water. In a way the idea that he might be insane was oddly comforting. Insanity would explain why he had lashed out like that. Well he could be all three here, and it wouldn’t matter. No one would care if he was mad, or evil inside, as long as he cleaned the pots. He had no friends, he had no access to weapons of any kind, he was not in charge of anything dangerous. He couldn’t hurt anybody here, he was never going to make a friend to be hurt again, so the danger of knowing him was not an issue.

  The afternoon was always the hardest part of the day. The scents of the cooking and baking were enough to convince even a full belly that it wanted more. The boy always slowed down, knowing that this was the busiest part of Cookie’s day, and that Cookie wouldn’t see him shirking. And today the kitchen got so warm it was hard not to fall asleep where he stood. If he closed his eyes even for a moment he would find himself slowly tipping over toward the water and come to himself with a jerk, and today was no exception.

  He couldn’t imagine how the others stayed awake. Maybe it was just that they all had more sleep than he ever did. Certainly the boy was as alert as a hungry rat, watching the roasting meat, hoping for a moment of distraction or inattention when he might be able to dash in with a bit of the bread he’d stuffed into his pockets and sop up some of the juices collecting in the trays under the spits. Those were supposed to be reserved for sauces and gravy, and Cookie guarded them jealously, but the boy never gave up hope of getting some. He’d actually succeeded, probably more than once, or he never would have kept trying, but Mags had seen him manage the trick once. Once, when the rest of the kitchen had been busy and Cookie had gone after something from one of the locked cellars or pantries where the expensive things like wine and meats were kept.

  Today the boy got the moment of distraction he’d hoped for, and more. The door was open to let in what breeze there was, and suddenly, without warning, one of the biggest wasps Mags had ever seen soared lazily inside; it was a huge black thing, easily the size of a man’s thumb. Perhaps it had been attracted by the scent of the fruit being made into pies, or the jellies in their bowls. One of the kitchen maids spotted it, pointed, and screamed.

  Then she made the mistake of flailing a towel at it without actually hitting it. That made the insect angry, and it dove aggressively down out of the air and attacked her, darting in, landing on her long enough to sting her on the neck. She shrieked with pain, while the other maids screamed and flapped their towels and aprons ineffectually at her, missing the insect altogether and further enraging it; it zig-zagged around the room, looking for more enemies to sting.

  The whole kitchen erupted into a bedlam of screaming, flapping towels, people ducking out of the way, while the enraged wasp tried to find itself another target.

  Mags abandoned the sink and ducked as low to the floor as he could get, making himself less of a target, as the boy saw his chance and made for the roasts. Cookie waded in at that point, as the wasp landed on the back of one of the cook’s helpers to sting him. Cookie smacked the victim and insect with his huge hand, smashing the wasp, and sending the hapless helper tumbling over into a cupboard. The maids, sure that the insect was still in the air, flailed and screamed with their eyes closed—or like Mags, ducked under the table, unaware the danger of being stung was over.

  Mags glanced toward the fire. The boy was stuffing his face, not only with juice-dipped bread, but with strips of crisp skin and meat he tore off the roast with his bare hands. If Cookie turned right now—

  “Shut up, you lot! Shut your faces, it’s dead!” Cookie roared for silence, whirled, to glare at the hysterical mob of maids, and caught the boy with both hands and his mouth full.

  Cookie’s face, already red, went purple with rage. He strode across the kitchen and seized the boy by the collar, hauling him to his feet and shaking him like a terrier with a rat. “Thief!” he raged. “You little bastard of a thief! Oh, you’re for it now!”

  Even the maid who’d been stung stopped crying and watched with open-mouthed fascination as Cookie shook the boy until his eyes rolled up in his head. The boy probably pissed himself with fear too, but he and Mags were so soaked with sweat and dishwater you couldn’t have told.

  Mags had to look away, then, as Cookie delivered one of his carefully calculated beatings. The meaty sound of an open hand on flesh filled the kitchen, as the rest of thes staff watched or turned away according to their natures. It didn’t go on for very long; Cookie knew that they were behind on preparations now, and he wasn’t going to waste any more time on the boy right now than he had to in order to maintain discipline. The sounds of the flat of a hand on flesh didn’t last as long as Mags thought it would. Maybe because Cookie was desperate to get things back on schedule. As Mags looked up again, Cookie dragged the boy back to the sink, dropped him there, blubbering.

  “Now get back to work!” Cookie roared, whirling round. “I’ll give you another dose of what’s coming to you when the work is done! You’ve wasted enough of my time for now! That goes for all of you!”

  Mags got up off the floor and went straight back to work. Sniveling and sniffing, so did the boy. There was some harsher punishment coming for him, probably more beating, possibly something else. Mags was as sure of that as he was that the sun would rise, but right now Cookie wanted his pots clean before he wanted the boy punished.

  And into the silence in his own head, came that mind-voice. :Mags.:

  Hellfires!

  How was he getting into Mags’ head?

  :No!: he shouted back. :Dallen, no, ye don’ want me! They’re right, I got this horrible thing i’ me, ye felt it yerself! It’s—I dunno how t’ get rid of it, an’ it wants—:

  :It’s not something... in you,: Dallen replied with difficulty through his haze of drugs. :We know. Others... in Haven have felt it.:

  Mags almost stopped washing pots. He actually froze for a moment, and only a blubbering sob from the boy woke him enough to continue the work. He scrubbed feverishly, no longer sleepy.

  :Whadya mean?: he demanded.

  :Others... felt it. Down in Haven, not up here on the hill. A Healer, a Temple Foreseer, and a priest with the Gift. Not so strong as you did. But felt it. It’s—he’s the foreigner. He’s the one. It’s not you. They know that now. Mags, come home!: Dallen pleaded.

  He shook his head; as tempting as it was to believe that he had been exonerated, he now had some real crimes on his own doorstep, and those couldn’t be rationalized away. :That doesn’ touch whut I done,: he replied, trying not to cry, himself, as the boy blubbered and whinged next to him. :I hurt you. I said ’orrible things ta Lena an’ Bear.:

  :Things with some... truth in them,: Dallen replied, fighting against his drugs. :And they said horrible things to you. But you are the one that took them to heart and ran away.:
<
br />   :’Cause they’re true.: Mags cringed, contemplating that dark place inside himself. :I don’ deserve you, an’ I don’ belong there.:

  :That will be quite enough, Trainee Magpie.:

  The sonorous mind-voice wiped out every thought, everything he was going to say, and made his head ring. He’d heard it once before. In the stable, when Rolan chose to broadcast his thoughts. He’d never been the sole focus of that mind-voice before, and it felt a little like having lightning strike at his feet.

  :Everyone has darkness inside them. Heralds are no exception. The difference between Heralds and villains is that Heralds overcome their darkness. The difference between Heralds and cowards is that Heralds face their darkness and cowards run from it. The difference between Heralds and the cruel is that when Heralds slip and allow their darkness to speak, they are truly remorseful and make amends, thus allowing the wounds they caused to heal instead of fester. So, Trainee. Which are you?:

  Mags waited to see if Rolan was going to say anything else. The inside of his skull reverberated like a bell. But Rolan said nothing else. Perhaps he was waiting for Mags’ reply—or perhaps he was on to more important things, leaving Mags to make up his own mind.

  :Come home, Mags.: Dallen’s weary mind-voice fell into the silence like a feather. :Amily and Lena are frantic with worry. Bear has told his brother that he will not leave until you are found.:

  Mags bowed his head, and tears fell into the dishwater as the grief at what he had done overcame him yet again. :But I hurt ye!:

  :But I was an idiot, galloping in the dark,: Dallen countered. :Rolan has spoken, and you heard him; he stands by you as I do. The others have spoken to their Chosen. That evil creature, whoever he is, has been sensed by others. Everyone knows it is not you. We need you. I need you. Come home. Please.:

  He was afraid to believe. And yet, Rolan had spoken. If he couldn’t believe in Rolan, what could he believe in?

  With a sigh, he gave in. :All right,: he said :But not right now.:

  As he let down the walls he had built to keep Dallen out, he sensed Dallen’s surprise and shock. :But—why not?:

  :Because there’s a kitchen fulla people waitin’ on clean pots, an’ the on’y other person t’ wash ’em is a beat-up lay-about,: he replied stubbornly. :If I’m gonna act like a Trainee, then I ain’t runnin’ out with a job half done. I’ll leave after it’s all cleaned up. Not afore.:

  Cookie had gone to bed early, and the boy’s continued punishment for his theft of meat was to be beaten again, then locked in the root cellar to sleep, among the mice and rats and black beetles that crawled in the place. This left Mags alone in the kitchen, absolutely unguarded, since in the couple of weeks he had been here, he had shown nothing like intelligence enough to get into any mischief.

  He felt he had done his duty at this point. He’d done everything he had been asked to do and had been fed on scraps. They had gotten more than they had paid for out of him, and he owed them nothing. The boy and one of the scullery maids would have to wash the pots tomorrow, until someone else turned up at the door looking for work. Someone would. Someone always did.

  Once the entire place was asleep, he checked the kitchen door. As he assumed, it was only locked from the inside, and it was easy to slip out.

  Of course now, if there had been anyone watching the place, looking for an opportunity to steal, they would have thought that it was their lucky night, for he slipped out without locking the door behind him. That wasn’t very likely, though, and as he dropped his shields a little just to be sure, he sensed no one within easy reach was awake, much less preparing to steal something.

  Somehow, even though he had thought that his mind was in a completely numb state, he realized he had been observing everything about this house the entire time he had been working here. Nikolas’ training had proven too strong to overcome. He knew exactly how to get out of the yard; use the barrel where the chicken manure was deposited every day—it was quite valuable for the garden plants—to get onto the roof of the coop where the chickens slept locked up at night. And from there, make a leap to the top of the wall, and tumble over. That would put him down in the alley.

  He had to be careful, of course. The barrel was none too stable, and the roof was not meant to hold the weight of a man, just to keep the weather off the chickens. But being careful was what he had been taught on the personal obstacle courses; moving slowly and testing your balance and the ability of the surface ahead of you to take your weight. Think every move through before you do it.

  He eased himself up onto the barrel, using his arms only, as if he was about to try and do a headstand. He noted as he did so that his arms were a lot stronger than they had been—but also that his endurance wasn’t quite as good as it had been. Well, he could certainly recommend pot scrubbing as a way to build up arm strength, but a diet of scraps—and those mostly bread and crust—clearly didn’t do much for the muscles as a whole. Moving at a glacial pace, he got his feet on either side of the barrel rim so that he didn’t go through the top. He stood up, then reached up to the roofline. He felt along the roof edge, found the support beams for the coop roof, and slowly put his weight on them. They held.

  He eased himself up onto the roof, spread his weight out over it by lying flat on it, waited for a moment while his arms recovered. After all, it was not as if he had to do this in a hurry. Once his arms stopped aching, he crawled to the side nearest the wall. There was just enough moonlight to see by; he found the beams on the other side of the roof by feeling under the roof edge, and slowly stood up with his weight on the beams and not on the roof between. He took three deep breaths, and jumped, hands outstretched.

  His hands caught the top of the wall, and he pulled himself up onto it. Not easily, his arms protested a lot, but he managed to get a leg over, and after that it was a simple fall and tumble down the other side. He got a little bruised doing so, but on the whole, it wasn’t a bad fall. He stood up, brushing himself off—then stopped. Why bother? He wasn’t exactly clean to start with.

  :Mags? Are you coming home now?: the drug-sleepy voice in his mind was as comforting as salve on a raw wound. He almost started crying again.

  :Aye. Jest need ye t’ rouse sommun t’ get th’ Guard t’ let me past th’ gate. Or I kin wait outside ’till mornin’ an’ ye kin ask sommun then. Reckon I kin find a place t’ hole up till—:

  It wasn’t a brush, this time, as that terrible mind impinged on his. It was more like a spear piercing his brain. That mind, that angry, murderous mind, actually hurt, burned, as it touched his. So angry, so hateful, that his knees gave and he sat abruptly down in the alley.

  It wasn’t cushioned by anything, and this time he knew. This was not inside of him, some hideous passenger in his head. No, this was a fully formed personality, older than he was by a couple of decades, and its anger and hate carried with them brief glimpses of memories of places and people and things that he had never seen, much less dreamt of.

  It was utterly unaware of him, this mind. Either this was not someone with a Gift for Mindspeech, or more likely, it was not someone who was aware that such a thing existed, or was trained in how to use it. And Mags had no idea why he could listen in on it. There had to be some connection between him and the one who harbored such horrible thoughts—but what?

  He considered trying a probe, but something held him back. It wasn’t ethics; the man thinking these things was a clear danger to Valdemar, and a mental probe was exactly in order here. It was something else, some subtle sense of warning. The man himself might not be aware of Mindspeech . . .

  But slowly, Mags became aware that there was a shadow there, hovering behind the mind in question. He thought perhaps it was something that had been put to guard him from outside. That was what was making his actual thoughts so obscure and hard to read. And that shadow... there was definitely something about it that made the hair on the back of Mags’ neck stand up, the way it did when a large and dangerous dog growled. Danger. Definite da
nger there.

  So he clung to the contact this time rather than trying to shut it out, and tried to glean what he could from the fragments he picked up. Oh, he wanted to shut it out, the pain of being touched by it was as bad as anything he had ever known—but this was important. Every fragment of information he could glean was more that could tell the Heralds who it was, and where he might be.

  There were fleeting memories of the Palace—and that suite that the fake envoys had been in. So... yes, this was one of the foreigners. He sensed Dallen struggling to stay awake and take all this in, but he couldn’t spare anything to help at the moment, as it was taking every bit of his concentration to absorb the bits and pieces he was getting and put them together into a coherent pattern.

  Oh, the man was angry, so angry. Mags could scarcely believe that anyone could be that angry and still be as under control as this man was. It was as if his rage was the food he lived on, the fuel for the furnace that forged him.

  This was nothing like the mad mind of the assassin; this rage was as cold as the mad one’s had been hot. Calculating, that was what it was. He might be insane—in fact, Mags could not imagine how anyone who was carrying around this much anger could not be insane—but he was as meticulously organized as a fine clockmaker. This man did nothing without examining every possibility and figuring out where it could take him. That was part of why it was so hard to read his thoughts—he actually thought these things through, several of them at a time, much faster than Mags could follow just one! Brilliant, he was blindingly brilliant.

  And yet, there was something about that mind that was very akin to the mad one. It was not in the level of organization, and not in the level of intelligence. It wasn’t the anger, although the mad assassin had been very angry. It felt almost as if—as if the two, this man and the assassin, had been related, physically related in some way. Could there be, in fact, a kinship connection? There might be!