Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel)

by Mercedes Lackey

  Then again, when was life fair? Ever?

  “It’d be nice if some people’d think wi’ their heads, ’stead uv some other parts,” he muttered.

  “If they did, the Healers would get a lot less work,” Bear replied, with a tentative smile.

  “Aye t’that.” Mags sighed. “Well, reckon I gotta muddle ’long. An’ I got practice. Hope we kin keep from brainin’ each other.”

  Bear pulled a long face. “So do I.”

  Mags left his packet of food in his room. He reckoned he might just as well go down to the Kirball field armored up again; the worst that would happen would be that Setham would tell him to take it off.

  So with Dallen saddled with his working saddle, he hoisted himself and his added burden up into place, and they trotted down to the playing field with Bear’s unwelcome news shoved firmly into the back of his mind.

  And certainly when he got there, it didn’t appear that anyone else had heard the stories—or if they had, they certainly didn’t seem to care.

  Foremost in their minds seemed to be the number of bumps and knocks they had taken yesterday, for they were arrayed in as motley an assortment of makeshift “armoring” as Mags had ever imagined.

  “Corwin, you look like you robbed your mother’s kitchen,” said one of the foot-players, laughing.

  “Very near did,” said the afore-mentioned Corwin, who was all but invisible behind all the stuff he had strapped to himself. “Half of this’s stovepipe. T’other half’s old bits of carpet. Thought of taking a pot for me head, but found a helm I could bang the dents out of.”

  “Great Kernos!” excleaimed Setham, as he approached with someone in tow. “You all have been . . . creative.”

  “That’s being generous, sir,” Gennie laughed.

  “Well this is all rather interesting, because besides our first practice, I was going to get your help in designing what will be our specialized armor.” Setham nodded at the solemn-faced young man that was with him. “My friend here will draw it up for me, I’ll consult with the other coaches, who are doing the same, and we’ll have the armor made up before the first match.” He peered at Corwin’s helm. “That miserable excuse for a helm—is that Karsite?”

  “Aye sir, I think ’tis,” Corwin replied. “Found it at a stall in the market.”

  “Well get one from the armory; those Karsite buckets are notorious. A baby could dent it, and a good hard blow will crack your skull right through it.”

  By this point, a cart had lumbered up, laden with what looked like the cast-offs and discards from the Guard armory. At least, it was all in dark blue and flaking silver.

  “If you haven’t ferreted out your own, or want to replace something, rummage through that,” Setham said, waving a hand at it. “We can wait.”

  Corwin was first at the wagon, probably being very eager to replace his bits of stovepipe with something less makeshift.

  When everyone was suited up, Setham went over the rules for the game again. “Now, obviously, since you foot-players are less mobile, you’ll be guarding the goal, both the flag and the ‘castle,’ ” Setham said. “But don’t think you will be confined to that by the rules. If there is a way for one of you to get a ball in the other castle or steal the flag, then your Captain will suggest it and you should try it. We decided to make the only rules of this game about safety. So no pulling a rider out of the saddle for now—although as you get better, that actually will be allowed. Riders, no running the foot-players down. That will never be allowed, because we can’t trust the ordinary horses to do it safely.”

  They all nodded. Of course. Nobody follows no rules in a battle, Mags thought. An’ this’s battle-trainin’.

  The rest of the practice session was confined to some very simple exercises with an end toward making them a team and getting them used to working with each other. Setham seemed satisfied. There was a lot of ball passing: Gray to Gray, Gray to Rider, Gray to Foot, Rider to Rider, Rider to Foot, Foot to Foot. There was a lot of goal blocking, first by just the Foot, then by the Riders, then by the Grays. Mags was kept busy “shouting” Gennie’s directions into the heads of the UnGifted, though he quickly discovered that everyone reacted faster when he showed them a picture than when he used words. Useful, that. It was faster for Gennie to send a picture to him, and easier for him to send a picture out.

  When they were dismissed, however, Mags was not done with the team. He approached young Jeffers, still on Dallen, before the latter could ride back into Haven. “Reckon ye still wanta learn weaponry?” he asked diffidently. “I made some ’rrangements, if ye do.”

  Jeffers’ eyes lit up, and his tired horse even raised his head, as if sensing his rider’s excitement.

  Mags held up a cautioning hand. “Got t’ warn ye. Gonna be tedious fer a goodly while. But I got t’ thinkin and I asked Weaponsmaster if he could be workin’ out exercises ye kin pass off as Kirball stuff, that’ll strengthen ye up i’ the right way for weapons, an’ ’e showed me some. This’s all stuff ye kin set up t’ do when ye’re at home. So e’en though ye ain’t actually practicin’ with sword or whatnot, ye’ll be practicin’ fer ’em at home.” He scratched his head. “Happen ye kin practice a-horse too, which ain’t a bad thing. Yon cob of your’n is steady ’nough in Kirball so far, he’ll be steady ’nough right off in this stuff.”

  Now Jeffers lit up even more; his eyes shone with happiness and he grinned for the first time since Mags had met him. “Mags, I can’t even begin to thank you enough! No wonder Amily and Lydia think you are clever!”

  Mags just shook his head. “Ain’t clever. Jest used t’ gettin’ round rules and sneakin’, ye ken? I mean, gettin’ done whatcha need t’ do, wi’out lyin’ or getting’ caught at it. That ain’t clever, jest a way of thinkin’ that ye got to learn when—”

  He broke it off. Jeffers didn’t need his story. Or Jeffers might already know it. In either case, telling him wouldn’t serve any good or useful purpose.

  “Anyway, I jest got figgerin’ out how to get somethin’ thet I want bad kinda ground inter me.” He shrugged. “An’ I don’ see no harm in you learnin’ this, an’ neither does Weaponsmaster. So, come on, an’ we’ll get ye started. Hellfires, prolly do ye good in Kirball too, top of ev’thing else.”

  “I can’t stay too much longer,” Jeffers warned. “My parents. And—they don’t know anyone in the Foot or anyone in the Riders to ask, but—they might in the Heralds—”

  Mags nodded. “Lemme check,” he said.

  :Dallen, kin ye make sure nobody rats on Jeffers? Covers fer him? Like, if there’s an ’mergency an’ someone comes up here fer ’im or sends fer ’im?:

  Dallen engaged in that long silence that meant he was speaking to all of the Companions within reach, as the two of them headed up toward the salle.

  :It’s sorted,: Dallen replied finally. :Some of the Heralds don’t like it, but we reminded them that some of their parents weren’t too happy about them being Chosen. We also reminded them that it isn’t as if the young man is doing anything wrong—and that he is very respectful of his parents’ choice, so they should be respectful of his. No one true way, after all. It seems to have worked.:

  “Dallen sez yer covered,” Mags reported just as they got to the salle itself. He listened to what Dallen had to say and repeated it verbatim. “He sez if some’un comes up here lookin’ fer ye, Heralds an’ Grays’ll say yer at salle getting’ some tips on hittin’ an aimin’ from Weaponsmaster. Weaponsmaster’ll say same. Ain’t a lie, neither. An’ afore anyone gets there, they’ll be warnin’, so ye kin get rid of weapon an’ it’ll look like ye was jest talkin’.”

  Jeffers dismounted, grinning ruefully. “And you say you aren’t clever!”

  “Hey, twasn’t me,” he protested. “That twas Weaponsmaster’s ideer. Now, ye go ’long t’ him, I’ll rub down yer cob an’ walk ’im cool. “

  “Mags—” Jeffers was at a loss for words. “You are a star.”

  Mags knew he wouldn’t be
long. Not like his own practices—Jeffers’ parents probably wouldn’t quibble up to a candlemark for “extra practice” but they certainly would say something about more than that. He got Jeffers’ horse and Dallen rubbed down and in good condition, and Dallen took the cob’s reins in his teeth to lead him off to the horse stables.

  Then Mags and the Weaponsmaster showed the young man the exercise they had worked out to simulate sword play. Normally this sort of thing was done by striking with a wooden blade—often weighted—at a padded pole called a “pells.” Obviously that wasn’t realistic for Jeffers to set up in a yard, since everyone knew what a pells looked like. So what the Weaponsmaster had decided on was for Jeffers to take swings with a weighted wooden club at a ball about the size of a melon, suspended at various heights to represent the various target areas on a human.

  He could tell them it was Kirball. He wouldn’t even be exactly lying, since one of the defensive moves they had all planned for was to smack the ball away from the goal with a much broader sort of club, more like a paddle, and the Kirball was about the same size. If he was ever challenged, he could say that working with a club instead of the paddle was to make his aim better, because it was harder.

  When Jeffers had to leave, he took a club and a leather ball and its marked string with him, nearly falling over himself with gratitude.

  But life continued to slide downhill into the mud. Aside from the Kirball practices, in which no one acted as if he was any different than he had been before all those ridiculous visions, that session with Jeffers was the last completely comfortable, happy moment Mags knew.

  Gossip about the Foreseers’ vision reached into every nook and cranny of the three Collegia, as did Mags’ own revelation that he was foreign-born. He found himself the focus of far too many speculative glances, laden with suspicion. Granted, most of them did not come from Trainees or Heralds—but some did. And the most suspicious were from the Bards and especially the Bardic Trainees, who had far, far too much imagination for their own good.

  He even started to hear wild tales about “Black Heralds” and “Black Companions,” who could somehow pass as the real thing, but inside were evil incarnate. Was that even possible?

  :No,: Dallen said emphatically. :They’re just making things up so they can frighten each other. What an incredibly stupid idea! It’s too stupid even to make me laugh.:

  Still, the stories persisted, because the surest way to make some people believe almost anything was to deny it completely. “Can you prove that?” the doubters would demand. And of course, no one could prove that what had never happened before never could happen. After all, there had been Trainees who had been repudiated and everyone pointed to Tylendel as the primary example. So why not bad Companions as well? The Companions weren’t infallible . . .

  So went the so-called “reasoning.”

  Of course, no one actually said anything to him. They just whispered it behind their hands around him and their minds shouted it so loudly that it got past his shields.

  Then there were the ones that turned up their noses in contempt at the wilder stories, but still thought, “what if it isn’t him, but someone he knows?” Or “what if he somehow brings old trouble from his past into the grounds and the King gets caught in it?”

  What could he say, to people like that, after all? He couldn’t refute what hadn’t happened yet. He couldn’t even say anything, because they weren’t saying anything to him.

  It was aggravating. It was more than aggravating. It was sickening. He went around with his stomach in a knot most of the time now, feeling eyes on his back, as people watched him, hoping to catch him showing his “true colors.”

  He even got into a shouting match with some of the highborn youngsters and some of the Bardic Trainees. It all started over—of all stupid things—the fact that he was eating soup and a little bread instead of the regular hearty luncheon. Not that he had much appetite anymore.

  “Is that what they eat where you come from, foreigner?” sneered one of the Bardic Trainees as he passed Mags’ table. “Or are you too good to enjoy honest Valdemaran food?”

  Mags gave him a stony stare. “Nah, I come from an honest Valdemaran mine, where we was worked worse’n donkeys,” he said. “Mine soup was mostly water an’ a couple cabbage leaves. Be good change for them as needs t’ be able t’ fit their uniforms, though, cause ye sure wouldn’ get fat on’t.”

  He knew he shouldn’t have said that. All right, the fellow was packing on a good several pounds more than he should, and his tunic was straining at the seams. And yes, he did seem to have half a pie and a cream cake on his plate.

  But it was a cruel thing to say, and he immediately regretted it.

  Too late, though, because before he could apologize, the Trainee rounded on him furiously. “You need to learn some proper manners, foreigner!” he snarled. “Or better yet, just go back where you came from! We don’t need your kind here!”

  “What kind’d that be?” Mags shouted back. “Cause I reckon if’n yer talking ’bout kind, ye be talkin’ ’bout ev’one in Grays or Whites!”

  “And how do we know you didn’t somehow bewitch that Companion into thinking he Chose you?” one of the others said viciously.

  “Because, Jan, you incredible dunce, the other Companions would certainly have noticed.” Lena ducked into the group and stood next to Mags, defiantly, her hands on her hips, her normally shy demeanor completely gone with her anger. “And because Mags can’t even be as old as you. Since not even the most experienced Karsite priests who were four times Mags’ age could manage to bewitch one Companion, much less the entire herd, I think you’d better give over that stupid idea. I wouldn’t even accept that in a story-song.” She gave him a withering glance. “No wonder you’re failing composition. I’d fail you too, if that is all you can come up with.”

  “Maybe he’s bewitched you too, Lena!” the fat fellow put in furiously, turning beet red with rage.

  Bear shoved his way in to stand on the other side of Mags. Slowly he looked the overweight Trainee up and down, and then spent a long and pointed time staring at the laden plate still in his hands. “Ferd Lekson, I just got this to say to you. You insult a fellow out of nowhere, then get mad because he gives you back what you gave him, and even madder because he tells you to your face what your so-called friends won’t, which is, if you don’t quit stuffing your face five times a day, there won’t be a Trainee uniform in all of Bardic that will fit you. Now, I got to say Mags was rude. But you were just as rude, and you started it, and you’re making it worse for your side with all your dumb accusations.” He put one hand on Mags’ shoulder. “Mags is Chosen. That should be the end of it. But he also saved my life last winter, and a couple of other people’s and you seem to have forgotten all of that.”

  Mags was astonished. He had never heard Bear talk like that before.

  “Now, you and your friends just take your dinner somewhere else, because one more word out of you and I’m gonna have to decide you need to get treated for your own good and make sure you’re on the special meals list.”

  Ferd went white at that. Mags knew what the special meals list was—it was for people who had troubles with some sorts of foods. There weren’t more than a handful of people who were on it, and most of them were glad to be—it meant that the cook made absolutely certain that the foods that made them ill never got anywhere near the plates that were destined for them.

  But if Bear put Ferd on it—Mags would bet nearly everything that Ferd would find himself restricted both in quantity and the kind of food he’d be allowed, and the only way he’d get anywhere near a piece of pie or cake would be if someone slipped it to him.

  “You can’t do that!” Ferd spluttered.

  Bear got grim-faced, and his eyes behind his lenses grew cold as steel. “Try me. Maybe I’m only a Trainee, but when it comes to things like that, even the senior Healers listen to me, and I can have a list of twenty reasons why you need to be on it without even
thinking hard.”

  Muttering to his friends, Ferd backed down and the lot of them slunk away. Bear sat down, Lena beside him, with a sigh.

  “This’s jest the beginnin’ ye know,” Mags said glumly, staring down into the soup he no longer had an appetite for. “They ain’t done.”

  “I know,” Lena said, looking after the lot of them with a worried face. “And what’s worse is, nobody else here said anything to defend you.”

  “You’d think some of the Grays would,” Bear said loud enough for those nearby to hear him. “After all, it’s Mags today—but who’s to say it won’t be one of them getting accused of ridiculous things tomorrow? Anything that can be used against him could be said about any other Chosen.”

  It was . . . very quiet. People kept their eyes on their meals, though no one seemed to be in the mood to eat.

  “Reckon I’ll go down t’ practice early,” Mags said abruptly, and shoved what was left of his meal away. “Thanks Bear. Thanks Lena. Least I know I got two friends.”

  Dallen said nothing as he stalked out of the dining hall, resolving not to eat another meal there until all of this was sorted.

  But he had to wonder—why on earth was he here when so many people didn’t want him?

  Mostly cause I got nowhere to go.

  That was the shame of it. There was no way he could just run away from here. Not so much for himself as for Dallen; the Companion ate a lot, and needed decent stabling, and all that cost money. What did he know, besides how to mine? Nothing. If Bear were in this position, he could just pack up and leave and set himself up as an animal Healer just about anywhere. Even Lena could go on the road as a wandering musician, even if she couldn’t claim to be a Bard. Both of them had obvious talents and gifts or Gifts that would make them welcome anywhere they went.

  He had—exactly nothing. Except mining, and where was he likely to get a place doing that? Even if Cole Pieters’ mine was in better hands now, it was a sure bet that there were miners enough already. He didn’t know any other sort of mining.