Mags clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Make out the list, get what help ye need—” He reached into his belt-pouch and handed over a handful of the coin-like bronze objects Heralds often used in place of actual money in situations like this. The “Herald’s scrip” had no denominations, as they were used in cases when no one knew how much something was going to cost. Like now. In theory, it would have been ridiculously easy to abuse such a system. In practice, no one wanted a sharp-eyed Royal clerk to go over a list and the charges, and find himself hauled into a courtroom to justify his charges to a Herald armed with a Truth Spell.
“I’ll see we ain’t cheated, Herald Mags,” Kyle said shrewdly. “Hell, most of this stuff, I’ll get local, tell folks what happened, reckon we’ll get a discount an mebbe some gifted. Got two lads I know with their own rigs nearby, we’ll have the Sisters restocked by nightfall.”
As he strode briskly out the door to get on the task, Mags gave Willowby a questioning glance.
“Got cleaning crews all over the place,” Willowby said, sounding a little helpless. “The livestock, thank the gods, was left alone, and the barn and sheds are all right, and so is the guest-house. Cleaning crews were the only thing I could think to do. Captain March helped me with that, this is his jurisdiction. He brought me a little army of women with mops and buckets and brooms.”
Watch Captain March, who looked like one of those fellows who had Watch blood on both sides of his family going back generations, shrugged. “Seemed to make the most sense. That place where they done their writin’s though . . .” he shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ there t’save. Best we kin do is scrub her out.”
“Well, I’ve got a notion,” Mags replied, glad to have something to contribute, at last. “Two, actually. Reckon I know how we can keep this from happening again, and who best to ask about that problem. I just need to find out if the Sister in charge of the copying’s fit to talk.”
A single set of footsteps behind him told him Amily had left the Abbess—
“I persuaded the Abbess to go to bed, and Healer Margeritte took her off with a potion guaranteed to make her sleep,” Amily said. “And I heard that last, and that, at least, I can answer. Sister Thistle is in charge of the scriptorium, and she’s angry, not frightened or in shock.”
“Come introduce me afore I go ridin’ off,” Mags said, making a request of it rather than a demand. Amily’s lips lost a little of that angry compression, and she nodded. The two of them went off to the chapel, where some of the Healer’s assistants were coaxing exhausted Sisters, who had wept themselves into a near-stupor, back to bed to finally get some rest.
One of the ones doing the coaxing was Sister Thistle, a round, energetic woman, with a smooth cap of bright brown hair threaded with gray, who actually looked as if she had gotten some sleep last night.
“Sister Thistle, this is my husband Mags,” Amily said, when the Sister’s attention finally came around to them. “He wants to ask you a few questions.”
“Certainly, anything I know, I’ll gladly tell you. Would you be the same as Trainee Mags who was such a ball of fire on the Kirball field?” Sister Thistle asked, her intelligent brown eyes lighting up.
Mags blushed and ducked his head. “Aye, that’d be me,” he replied.
A hint of a smile crossed the Sister’s face. “You know, Herald, I imagine you think, or at least thought, a lot about Kirball. Of course the Heralds that invented it certainly told you that it was important preparation for real, genuine conflict, war, even. Right?”
“I’d agree with that, Sister,” Mags said, wondering what her point was—because he was sure she had one. “In fact, we used it right here in Haven in some serious situations—”
“Oh, you’ll get no argument about that from me,” she agreed. “But I think there’s something none of you considered, and that’s the effect seeing you lot out there on the playing field has on us ordinary folk.”
:I wonder where she’s going with this?: Dallen said, poking his nose in through the chapel door, with Rolan beside him. :It’s interesting. She’s clever. I don’t think it’s anything either of us would expect.:
“What effect’d that be, Sister?” Mags asked politely. He was interested but—he wished this was another time. I’ve got a pile of stuff t’do, an’ I hope she’s not gonna be all day about this. He suppressed a sigh. That was the problem with really intelligent people; they got off on their tangents at even inappropriate times.
:Or maybe she’s off on a tangent to avoid thinking about what was done to the Scriptorium,: Dallen pointed out.
:Aye . . . can’t say I blame her.:
“Most people never see Heralds in combat,” the little woman replied. “Let’s face it, you wouldn’t want them to. Yet Heralds are in some sense the backbone of our combat forces. With this Kirball you’ve invented, people can see for themselves how you work together, and how you work with those who are not Gifted. Without even realizing it, they learn that should they find themselves in a situation where they must do exactly as you say, you have already given them a reason to trust you because they have seen for themselves what you can do.”
“Huh!” Mags said in surprise, distracted for the moment by her observation. Then he regathered his wits. “Well, Sister, that ain’t why I need to talk to ye. An’ I really hate t’ask ye this but I wonder—I wonder how much ye can remember ’bout the work that was goin’ on—”
“In the Scriptorium?” she interrupted him, her cheeks flushing and eyes flashing with anger, though it was anger she didn’t turn on him. “Everything, Herald Mags. I was in charge of all the work we did there. Sister Aster was copying Mantella’s Herbal. Sister Loveage was copying Detailed Anatomy of the Chest. Sister Basil was copying The Mechanics of Mining—”
“Wait—” Mags interrupted, confused. “I thought you were copying religious texts.”
“Pifft.” Sister Thistle waved her hand. “Stuff. Oh we can, and we have, particularly if there are illuminations that someone wants copied exactly, but what the Sisters of Ardana have always done is copy detailed drawings and diagrams that those fellows with the clever moveable type can’t reproduce yet. We are not artists, although we learn all the techniques of artists, but we are exact copyists. And, of course, we have to know enough about the subject to know if an error has been introduced into the drawing we’re expected to copy, and correct that error.”
Suddenly the scrawls on the scriptorium wall made more sense. And they made him all the angrier.
“Well, can you give me a list?” he asked. “Can’t replace the work that was done, but I maybe know someone who can replace what you was copying from. An’ if he can’t, he knows who can.”
A flicker of hope passed over Sister Thistle’s face. “Easily,” she said, and pulled a pencil and a scrap of palimpsest out of her capacious pockets.
• • •
“I’ll have fifteen of my best at Ardana’s Temple in the time it takes them to gather their light kit and march there,” the Prioress of Betane of the Axe said to Mags, when he had explained what had brought him there. “That will give us three shifts of five, which ought to be more than enough to handle anything that comes up.”
But Mags had another idea. “Seven or eight of your seasoned Votaries and seven or eight of your Novices,” he suggested. The Prioress ran her hand over her short-cropped blond hair and gave him a skeptical look. “Let me explain why. The Sisters of Ardana are peaceful scholars, and if you fill their guest-house with grim, seasoned soldiers, you’ll only terrify them more. They’ll assume you think they’re under serious attack by thugs. They’re mostly old, they’ve had a very bad shock, and their hearts can’t take too many frights. But if you have some nice, young, cheerful girls about, and explain it as a chance to give them patrol training, they’ll relax. They’ll feel safe, because of the seasoned ones, but not knowing anything about the Order, they’ll thi
nk you’d never take Novices where there was a chance someone would be hurt.”
“Then they truly don’t know us very well,” the Prioress snorted, but she also smiled. “You’re right, though, it would be ill-done if we only made matters worse by frightening them. I’ll order the Novices on during the two daylight shifts where the old dears will see them, and save a full contingent of Votaries for the shift that runs dark to dark. Though I pledge you, Herald Mags, if any fool tries those tricks again, we’ll treat him like the enemy he is.”
“Leave enough left of the perpetrator to stand trial,” was all Mags said, and went out to where one of the Novices was fussing over Dallen.
:She won’t be that . . . extreme . . . if they catch someone,: Dallen said. :She’d like to, but she won’t.:
:I figgered,: he replied. :It’s just the mad talking. She’s a professional, through and through, and she won’t let the mad do any acting, nor will she let any of the Sisters do anything like that either.:
As they clopped their way down side-streets on their way to the main thoroughfare that ran up to the Hill, he almost Mindspoke Rolan directly to find out how Amily was faring.
:Don’t,: Dallen advised. :Rolan wouldn’t say anything about it, but unless it’s an emergency, it’s protocol not to Mindspeak the King’s Own’s Companion directly. It’s . . . well, it’s just not done, it’s as if you’re going around behind Amily’s back.:
Huh. He learned something new every day. :All right, then, I’ll put in the extra and talk to her instead.:
:She’d probably rather you did,: Dallen pointed out. :She’s been having a bad day, too. She could use some good news.:
:You’re probably right.: It took more effort to Mindspeak someone who didn’t have the Gift herself, but then again, this was Amily, and shouldn’t he be willing to put in that extra effort for his own wife?
By the time he and Dallen arrived at Lord Jorthun’s manse, he had enough information from Amily to give the Prince a good, solid report by Mindspeech—a report that Amily herself could not give, because she did not have Mindspeech. The Scriptorium was cleaned out and the graffiti removed from the walls. New copying desks and stools were coming from several other scholastic Orders who had extras; two sets had already arrived. Inks, paints, and paper supplies were on the way. Those who had been promised copies of the works in production had been notified of the loss of their books and were understanding—and horrified, more for the sake of the Sisters than their own losses. The kitchen had been cleaned out first thing, and enough food had been found between what Jem had been able to salvage and the produce of the hens and the garden that the Sisters had been all put to bed—except the Abbess and Sister Thistle—with a good, if odd, meal inside them. The Abbess was overseeing the cleaning and refurbishing of the rest of the Abbey, while Sister Thistle saw to the Scriptorium and kitchen and was helping Amily oversee the restocking of the pantry and larder. Mags had warned her that the Sisters of Betane were on the way, so Amily had left Thistle to that while she made sure the guest house—which, being untenanted and separate from the Abbey, had thankfully not been touched—was opened up, aired out, and ready.
By that point, he was raising his hand to knock on Jorthun’s door, so he didn’t get time for more than a fleeting :Well done: from Sedric. He waited for the doorman to answer, hoping that Sedric had meant that. This was all new ground to him and Amily both. Problems and petty politics in the hinterlands, they could handle. Thieves, frauds and other criminals he knew well enough to predict their next moves—mostly, anyway. Information-gathering was second nature. Coping with the politics and jealousies and ambition in the Court was something they could do without really thinking about it.
But the kind of twisted mind that was pulling these outrages off . . . no. This should have been the territory of a Mind-healer, not him, and not Amily. Outrages. Surely the Poison Pen and the ones that destroyed the Abbey can’t be the same. It would have taken more than one person to create all the damage we saw there, wouldn’t it?
Better talk to Jorthun.
The servant at the door took one look at him, and ushered him, not only straight in, but straight to Jorthun’s study, where his Lordship was seated behind a desk that was nearly a work of art, it was so beautifully and intricately carved with the crouching cats of the Jorthun arms. Steveral Lord Jorthun looked up from whatever it was he was reading, and the next thing Mags knew, he was sitting in a comfortable chair with a glass of brandywine in his hands. And he hadn’t even said a word yet.
“Tell me everything,” the man said, in the most commanding voice Mags had heard outside of the Prince and the King. Mags did exactly as he’d been ordered, a strict recitation of facts from the time the Prince had summoned him to the moment he’d knocked on the manse’s door.
It took a while, with several interruptions for Steveral to question him more closely on several points. When Mags was done, his mentor and friend sat for several minutes with his hands steepled on his desk, staring at nothing, wrapped in intense thought. His face was very still . . . and only now, when it was not animated by any expression, did he show his age. He’s furious, Mags thought, and felt Dallen’s unspoken agreement. But I’m not sure why.
“Why did you come to me, Mags?” Jorthun said, breaking the silence so abruptly that Mags started.
Mags scratched his head. “I got a list,” he replied, pulling the list of the lost full manuscripts being copied out of his belt pouch. “This is all the books they was copying. I figured if anyone would know if there was any other copies, either you would, or you’d know who would.”
Jorthun accepted the list, and looked it over carefully. “Fortunately these are not so obscure that I’d need to send you to someone else. They are rare by virtue of needing to be hand-copied, but not impossible to obtain. In fact, I believe I have most of them, and I know where I can get the rest. I’ll see that the Sisters get new copies to work from. It’s the least I can do, seeing that I have made use of their services myself more than once.”
Mags nodded his thanks. :Dallen, let Rolan know so he can tell Amily so she can tell Sister Thistle.: There, that was oblique enough it should be at least a nod to protocol.
:You’re learning. Done.:
“The other reason . . . this business is . . .” he waved his hand vaguely. “It ain’t what I know. It ain’t what I’m good at. If I were to go at this the way I want to, I’d be spendin’ all my time just sifting through everybody’s heads, neighborhood by neighborhood, till I found the one that’s been doing this. Or ones,” he added. “If he had my Gifts, that’s how my cousin Bey’d be doing it, and no regard for anyone’s privacy. But I can’t do that.”
“No,” Jorthun agreed. “You can’t.”
The King’s first spymaster sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I am out of my depth here too, Mags. This isn’t the work of a sane person—or persons; I still haven’t made up my mind if there is only one or several. The only time I ever needed to hunt someone this unhinged was when I tracked a man who murdered and mutilated over and over. That was in my first years as Kyril’s agent, and the Watch was baffled, so Kyril sent me down to see what I could do.”
There was a long silence. “Did you catch him?” Mags asked, finally.
Jorthun shook his head. “I never did. The murders just stopped. To this day, I don’t know why. I am sure you have seen that I am angry; this is why. This reminds me too much of that occasion. A different sort of madness, but madness nevertheless. This is not a task for a spy, but the Watch and the Guard will be even more out of their depths than we are. So we must use the tools we have, cleverly.”
“One or several?” Mags asked him. “Man or woman?”
Again, Jorthun shook his head. “The signs point to both. But I will tell you one thing—I was right in my prediction. Whoever this is, is getting bolder, and taking mor
e risks for a greater reward.”
“Reward.” Mags mulled that over. “I reckon it’s gotta be a reward, wreckin’ all this stuff, gettin’ people upset and makin’ ’em hurt.”
“It’s a blow against the enemy, in a war decreed by the gods themselves,” Jorthun agreed solemnly. “At least according to those disgusting scrawls on the walls and in the letters. If it is several, there is one mind behind it, directing all of it. One mind that is convinced that there is only one, true way and anything outside that is blasphemy. And this person will not stop until the war is over.”
“Then we’d better catch ’em, ’cause it never will be, not by their lights,” Mags replied, and angrily drank Jorthun’s excellent brandy down in a single swallow.
• • •
Mags had all the books the Sisters needed in his saddlebags within a candlemark, and made his way back down to the Abbey. He had the feeling that Sister Thistle wasn’t going to rest until she’d gotten everything set to rights in her little domain, and that included having copies of the work they had promised in her hands.
And he was right.
He found her, looking exhausted by all the work, putting the last touches on the newly installed copying desks, reproducing from memory the exact combination of inks, paints, pens, and brushes each of the other Sisters had been using for her own project. When he silently handed over the books to her, she lit up like the sun.
“I do not know how you managed that, Herald Mags, but I am inclined to see Blessed Ardana’s hand on you in this,” she said fervently, taking the pile of books from him and clutching them to her ample bosom. “I would never have known where to look for copies.”
“Oh, I reckon ye would have, if ye’d had a bit of time t’think ’bout it. And mebbe some sleep,” he told her.
“Oh, I got some sleep last night. While the others were cackling like a lot of frightened hens, I made a bed out of the kneeling cushions and got some rest.” She raised an eyebrow at his surprise. “We were locked in, and it was obvious after the first candlemark of shouting that no one was going to let us out until Kyle arrived in the morning. There was nothing any of us could do until then. There was nothing we could do to stop whatever was going on, and there was no point in trying to imagine what was being done. I come from farm folk, Herald. We know when there’s nothing to be done you might as well get some sleep, because when there is something to be done you’re going to wish you’d had some.”
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