He put the fire things back where they belonged—because not doing so would look very suspicious, and because he didn’t want to make any extra work for the inn servants—and took his bucket of ashes outside. Once there he got his barrow and headed back.
The soapmaker greeted him with a nod, as if she had expected he would not take long. She took back her apron, and thrust it at a rather grimy boy who took it cheerfully enough. When the boy was gone, taking the barrow back to the inn, presumably, she turned to Mags.
“I hope you got what you were looking for, Trainee,” she said. “And I’m glad we could help you.”
“So’m I, missus,” he replied with a little bow of thanks. “Ye saved me a mort’ o’trouble.”
“Well good.” Then she grinned. “And you might think of sending here if you need soap.”
He dusted himself off with the help of the girl, who brushed him down with a broom with a bit too much enthusiasm, and went to get Dallen out of their yard. Dallen was looking altogether pleased with himself, and Mags felt he had every reason to be.
“So what’s Nikolas say?” he asked, as they made their way up the hill.
:Well, the long and the short of it is—you know that example Lydia gave you? It was uncannily spot-on. While we were aware that the blizzards were causing some hardship, and we knew there was a plague of something that was affecting the flocks in the south, we didn’t know just how bad both were. Somehow, Chamjey found out, and rather than alerting the Crown via the Council, he decided that he was going to secure all the available wool and meat for this year to himself, so that he can command whatever price he wants.: Dallen, strangely, was not angry. He was not even annoyed.
Perhaps because Chamjey had been found out . . .
“Would that matter all that much?” Mags wondered aloud.
:For the meat and leather probably not. One could use goat, cow—even wild animals for meat and leather. But the wool is a life-and-death matter for the spinners, dyers and weavers. Soren is going to be purple over this.:
“Well, we proved we kin do what Nikolas asks us to, eh?” he replied, still not sure why this mattered all that much, but believing that it was that important to Nikolas and Master Soren.
:More than that, Rolan and Nikolas really didn’t think Chamjey was up to anything more than a minor peccadillo—oh, it would be worthy of getting him to resign from the Council in embarrassment, but nothing more. Instead we caught him in a major scandal.: Now Dallen sounded pleased again. :This is good, this is very good. The only thing that would have been better would have been if you had recognized who it was that was meeting with him.:
“Oh—hellfires. Should we go back?” Mags swung around in the saddle to look back down the road.
:No need. This is important enough that they are about to be intercepted. We’ll find out soon enough who it is.:
4
MAGS made it back to the Collegium in time to make his last two classes—or rather, one class and one exercise. Sadly, the class was the languages one. Happily, the exercise was riding. He didn’t even have to think about riding anymore, and even though the wind was strong and bitter enough to cut right through his clothing, he and Dallen just romped over the entire course, staying warm enough through pure exertion.
Riding just felt right, in a heart-deep way. He knew what Dallen was going to do before the Companion actually did it. Dallen knew what he wanted the moment he decided on a direction. The two of them were physically melded so close together that they might just have been a single entity.
It was glorious. Even though they made a few mistakes—missing two jumps by knocking down the bars, and having to go around a scramble, losing time—it was still glorious. If this had been all they had to do, life would have been perfect.
Of course, it wasn’t. But at least for that slice of time, it was as close to perfect as Mags could get, or had ever gotten.
He washed up at the Collegium, where there was all the hot water he could want, and tubs for soaking in when he had the time. The washing facilities at the stable were about the same as at the mine, the only difference being that the water came from a pump rather than the stream or the sluice. Once clean and feeling more civilized, he then went in to supper. Bear was there, but not Lena, who was still not talking to her friends.
:It’s only been three days,: Dallen reminded him.
“Three days is a long time to sulk,” he said out loud, and Bear looked at him oddly.
“Lena?” he said finally.
Mags flushed. “Aye. Sorry. Talkin’ t’ Dallen.”
Bear shoved a bit of meat pie into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “She wants to impress her da,” he said, after swallowing. “I mean, really impress him. Make him sit up and take notice. Been working at that all year. Hardly ever does anything but work on being a Bard. And then he shows up and doesn’t even know who she is, which, when she’s thinking he’s at least seeing the reports on her and maybe seeing she’s living up to him—”
Mags blinked, finally understanding what Lita meant. Trust Bear to put it into simple language even a dunderhead like him could understand.
“Oh . . . ” he replied.
“So, likely she thinks she hasn’t done enough. Or hasn’t done the right things. Or, you know, she’s done all the right stuff, but she’s just not good enough to impress him.” Bear gulped his tea, a glum look on his face.
“That ain’t fair,” Mags said slowly.
“It isn’t fair and it isn’t true, but that’s what she thinks.” Bear put his mug down. “I guess I know something about not being able to impress your folks,” he added bitterly.
Belatedly, Mags remembered that Bear came from a family of Healers, of which he was the only member that did NOT have a Healing Gift. He licked his lips awkwardly.
“Well, she’s here, not at home, and maybe the Bards can sort her out,” Bear concluded. “Probably. I mean, after half Bardic Collegium listened to her pa getting the skin pulled off him, maybe she’ll figure out that not everybody is as impressed with him as he is with himself.”
Mags decided that a little duplicity was in order. “Bard Marchand? Getting’ the skin pulled off him? What?”
Bear cheered up a little and proceeded to describe in detail the dressing-down that Lena’s father had gotten. It was a lot more accurate than Mags had expected—but then, Bards were supposed to be able to memorize things that happened on the spot, so they could repeat them back accurately in song or story form later, so maybe that wasn’t altogether shocking. That was cheering, too. It meant that, really, Marchand had no one to blame but himself for the tale getting around. Mind you, with someone like him, he’d probably look for any scapegoat rather than accept responsibility for his own stupid behavior.
Well at least this meant that Bard Marchand would not be looking for a single Heraldic Trainee to blame for word of this getting out. More like Trainees in his very own Collegium.
“I hope that cheers ’er up,” Mags said, when Bear was done.
Bear just shrugged. “You never know what people are going to think when something like this happens to kin. Sometimes there’s this, ‘serves you right, I’m glad you got what was coming to you’ feeling, sometimes there’s this ‘glad it was you and not me’ and sometimes there’s this ‘how dare they say that about my pa’ thing. Just no telling. Doesn’t change that he didn’t know her, either.”
“No.” Mags sighed. “Wish she wasn’t so . . . easy t’ hurt.”
“That’s Bards, I reckon, at least at the beginning.” Bear shoved away from the table. “But they need to get a thick skin before they get into Scarlets, or they’re gonna spend all their time maundering about feeling hurt by people what don’t like their work or Bards that are better’n they are, or how their family don’t understand ’em, and not getting the job done.”
Mags couldn’t have put it better himself. He nodded. “Well I hope she stops feelin’ so poorly. I miss ’er.”
“Me too,” Be
ar said shortly. “See you later.”
Mags sat there wondering what had made Bear so out of sorts. Maybe the same not-quite-spring crankiness that seemed to be affecting so many of the others. He stared at the remains of his pie and wondered if he ought to try and get to Lena and talk her around to a good humor.
In the end, though, the thought of the mound of study waiting for him back in his room decided him. He couldn’t make anything better for Lena than he already had; sending her somewhat misspelled notes affirming that he (and Dallen) would like to take her out for a ride or a walk or just have a game of draughts or something. Not saying anything about needing her help with classes, because that would seem as if he only valued her for that help. What else was there to do?
Bah.
But when he got back to his quarters, there was a piece of folded paper waiting on the top of his books that he had not left there. He hoped it was from Lena—
But it was from Herald Nikolas.
Please come to my quarters after dinner. I need you to report what you overheard Chamjey saying for the King’s ears.
Nikolas wanted him to report to the King.
To the King.
He was flooded with panic.
No, no, no—how kin I—I cain’t—th’ King—I nivver—
Suddenly, in the middle of the muddle, he felt Dallen in his head, coming in and firmly just squashing all that panic down for a moment, as if the Companion had actually sat on it, physically.
:He’s just another Herald.:
“But he’s the King!” Mags said aloud, his voice breaking at the end.
:Only in the Throne Room. That is why Nikolas asked you to come to his rooms. There, Kiril will just be another Herald.:
“But I dunno how to talk t’ him!”
:You just talk to him. With respect, but that’s all. Now hurry up, he’s probably already there, and you don’t want to keep the King waiting.:
That sent another spurt of panic over him, but it was panic that got him moving. Hastily, he made sure he was clean and hadn’t accidentally dropped any food or sauce on himself at dinner, snatched up his cloak, and ran all the way back up to the Collegium. He arrived at Nikolas’ door all out of breath, and before he could tap on it, Nikolas himself opened it.
“Ah good, Mags. You got my note.” Nikolas put one hand in the center of his back and firmly propelled him into the room.
The Herald had three rooms, so far as Mags was aware. One was Amily’s bedroom, although his daughter was apt to sleep overnight at the home of one friend or another, including Master Soren’s niece. One was his own bedroom, and one was a “public” sort of room, with comfortable seating and a desk as well as a fireplace.
This was where Mags occasionally met with him, although usually the King’s Own came down to Mags’ rooms at the stable. Today there was a stranger sitting in the chair nearest the hearth, feet propped up to the fire. Sprawled, actually, rather than sitting, and looking just a little untidy.
“This is Mags, Kiril,” said Nikolas, continuing to propel Mags into the room, since Mags’ own legs seemed to have lost the ability to take steps forward on their own.
The man turned, and Mags blinked and did his best not to gawk. He knew this man. This was the Herald he had encountered three days ago at the stable. No wonder he had looked familiar! That profile was on at least half of the coins that Mags had handled since he arrived here.
The King grinned at Mags. “You were right. Dallen did try to take my fingers.”
:Did not.:
“Um,” said Mags, intelligently.
Nikolas got him seated across from the King by the simple expedient of positioning him in front of a chair and pushing down on his shoulders. He plopped down gracelessly then leapt to his feet and started to kneel.
Nikolas grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him back into the chair.
The King was laughing so hard he was bent over.
“Mags, Mags, please,” he choked out around laughter. “No kneeling, no bowing, just the two of us having a conversation.”
Mags gulped and sat gingerly on the edge of the chair. “Yessir, yer Majesty Highness sir,” he gabbled.
“Calm down,” said the King, making soothing motions with his hands. “Now, I want you to put your mind back to this afternoon when you first found where Chamjey was going. What did you do?”
“Tried t’ figger out how t’ get where I could hear ’im, yer Greatness,” Mags said. “Dallen, he said t’ get inside an’ lookit th’fireplace. Twas fulla ash. Dallen, he tookit us t’ the nearest soapmaker t’ find out who got th’ ash from thet Inn. Happen it was that soapmaker. Dallen said, ask if they’d collected. She said no. Dallen said, askit if I could. She—” He stopped and thought for a moment. “She askit me an’ Dallen if this was prankin’, we said no, t’ wasn’t. She askit Dallen if there was a Herald knew what we was about, an’ Dallen, he nodded aye. So’s she give me th’ apron an’ all an’ tol’ me how t’ collect an’ I went back t’ Inn.”
Nikolas and the King exchanged a significant glance. “They’re starting to ask Companions questions,” the King said.
“That’s no bad thing,” Nikolas replied. “Intelligent questions, not just ‘hey boy, want an apple?’ ”
“Then what?” the King asked.
Mags closed his eyes, the better to remember, and slowly recited everything that he had heard, with Dallen prompting him. When he was done, he opened his eyes to see the King nodding thoughtfully.
“We’ve got a quandary,” Nikolas said to the King, and Mags suddenly felt as if he was not even there, the two of them were concentrating so hard on each other.
The King nodded. “Two, actually. What Chamjey is doing is not technically illegal. Just immoral, but we don’t regulate morals—or at least, not that sort of morality . . .”
“It . . . ain’t ethical, your Majestic,” Mags put in timidly. “Don’t we got laws ’bout ethics?”
Two pairs of eyes suddenly made him the target of the same intense stare, and Mags felt utterly unnerved.
“We do,” the King said, finally. “And members of the Council swear an oath when they accept a seat on it that they will behave with the interests of the Kingdom as a whole superseding their own. At the very least, Chamjey has violated that oath.”
Nikolas drummed his fingers on the wooden arm of his chair as the fire crackled in the fireplace. “Chamjey is shrewd. And we don’t have any actual proof of all of this. We have one Trainee who listened in on a conversation, but could not actually see the speakers.”
“Ah! But we can get corroborating evidence!” the King replied after a moment. “We can canvass the herders, find out who invested in their wool and meat-sheep, and follow those leads up the line. It will take time—”
“Soon’s ye get t’ the fust guilty man, he’ll get all nervous-like,” said Mags, thinking of how that sort of thing had gone back at the mine. “Th’ other feller, he said they went through lotsa people t’ do this, but an’ ye get the fust feller t’ talk, it’ll go up chain pretty quick, I bet.”
They both nodded, and the King sighed. “I wanted to get this settled quickly, but I suppose I shall have to resign myself to getting it settled thoroughly.” He stood up. “Mags, I’m getting some tutors arranged for you Trainees. There are a number of intelligent young people in Haven that are being interviewed, fine scholars, but poor, who would certainly benefit from this idea. In fact, the only reason we haven’t got some tutors yet is because we are making sure that they are good at teaching.”
Mags felt his eyes widening. “Twas a good idear then?” he said.
“Very much so. And I am looking forward to seeing you and Dallen trying for a Kirball team. I’d like to see if Dallen can run with the same eagerness that he eats pocket pies.” The King’s face split with a grin.
:Hey!:
Mags smothered a laugh.
“Now, I’ve taken up enough of your time . . .” the King hesitated.
Ma
gs supplied what he thought the King was looking for. “Eh? I wuz never here, never talked t’ yer Royalness ’bout nothin’, an’ I don’ know nothin’ ’bout sheepses and wool. Herald Nikolas, he jest wanted t’ ast me ’bout what Bard Marchand said, ’xactly, when he sent me on that there errand he shouldn’t of.”
The King nodded. “Exactly so. Good night, Mags. It was good to meet you formally, so to speak.”
Mags got to his feet, managing to control his knees, which still felt a bit weak, bowed, and let himself out. As he left, he sensed that the King and the King’s Own had only begun an evening of intense conversation and decision-making.
He was very, very glad that he was never going to be in Nikolas’s shoes.
:And between you and me, I am just as glad not to be Rolan. Now come on back and let’s talk about this Kirball business. I’ve made some inquiries.:
Bear and Lena seemed to have forgotten the project that had taken them all into the Guard Archives this past winter—but Mags had not. Although his opportunities to go back and search had gotten a lot rarer, he still presented himself at the door of the Archives from time to time for a candlemark or two of research.
And the next day gave him one of those rare opportunities, as he finished an exam unexpectedly early and was dismissed with a smile. He headed for the Guard Archives at a trot, feeling as if he was getting very close to what he was looking for. The last time he had been through the reports, there had been mention of an unusually large bandit group, one that the Guard felt probably had a substantial encampment. “It would not be difficult here,” the Guard Captain had written. “There are many caves and abandoned mines, and it would be possible to hide as many as fifty or sixty fighting men and their hangers-on in some of them. The raids we are seeing are growing bolder and more pernicious, and suggest that these miscreants have organized under a clever leader.”
That sounded like what he was looking for, and Mags had already had enough disappointments that by now he was well over the dread of finding out who his parents had been. He just wanted some answers, any kind of answers.
Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Page 7