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

by Mercedes Lackey

  It reminded him of a kind of morbid song Lena sang to him and Bear once, about a man who had his fortune told, and it was that he would meet Death in the village square the next day. So he flung himself on a horse and rode like the wind until at a few drips short of the appointed hour, and he dismounted in front of an inn in another city. Thinking he had escaped, he turned, and ran right into Death who said in surprise, “Oh thank you, you saved me a trip!” and took him.

  But at any rate, it sounded like the Guard Archives, though quiet and warm, would not be a good place to hide out. Nor would the Collegium Library.

  But the Heralds had Archives . . .

  Not as big as the ones for the Guards, not even as big as the Bardic ones, but they had Archives, and almost no one ever went there.

  :Actually,: Dallen said, after a moment, :That’s a good idea. You didn’t look there for information about your parents, because you didn’t know the exact dates or place where the bandits’ camp was. Now you do, and there might be something in the Heralds’ reports. More detail about your parents’ clothing—perhaps even, if you look backward a bit, you’ll find someone who ran into them on Circuit, maybe in a town, maybe on the road. Heralds are supposed to report on foreigners they encounter.:

  In all of the unhappiness, Mags had quite forgotten why he had uncovered that information in the first place. He gave that some thought. :Huh.: He thought a bit more. :Well . . . I got studyin’. Mebbe I kin look after I’m done wi’ studyin’.:

  The Heralds’ Archives were in the top floor of the Heralds’ Wing, exactly where the library was in the Collegium Wing. Unlike the Guard Archives, or the Collegium Library, this enormous room was dark, and chilly. Like the Guard Archives, there were rows and rows of floor to ceiling shelves on either side of a passage through the middle of the room. Unlike the Guard Archives, it was rather untidy, with boxes left open on the floor, and books in piles. There were only a few lamps up here, and only half of them were lit, making perhaps four pools of light in the darkness, including one all the way at the end of the room.

  This was why it was very obvious when someone moved a little at the end of the room. The shadow cast under the lamp there was quite long, and the movement did more than catch Mags’ eye, it practically made him jump.

  Bugger, someone’s here already, he thought. But this was the most private place he was going to find, so he continued to move into the room. Whoever this was, maybe Mags could avoid him—

  Which was, of course, right when his shin hit a chair he couldn’t see, and knocked it over.

  “Who’s there?” cried out a startled voice.

  One he knew.

  “Amily?” he called back, incredulous.

  “Mags? Oh good!” the relief and the welcome in that voice made him flush a little. “I’m so glad you’re here, you couldn’t have picked a better time. Please, come here, we found out what you wanted to know.”

  Being more careful this time, he hurried across an expanse of floor made treacherous by the piles of books, boxes of papers, and scattered chairs. Whatever else they were, the Heralds certainly were nothing like as tidy about their record-keeping as the Guard.

  He found Amily curled up in what looked like her own private little nest, in a corner that was surprisingly warm and cozy. A good oil lamp was fastened up on what looked like—and proved to be, when he touched it—the back of a substantial brick chimney. It radiated warmth into this space exactly as the one in his room did. There was a heavily padded half-lounge here, a couple of padded chairs, two little tables within easy reach, and books and a teapot and cup on them.

  Amily smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling. “I love my father dearly, but sometimes I just want to be somewhere that he’s not,” she said. “And no matter how polite he is about it, we live in three small rooms and there is never more than a single door between us. It’s not hard for me to get up here, and no one minds my being here.”

  She patted the lounge, and he sat down gingerly beside her, flushing a little. “But enough about all that. I was actually just putting the last of the reports into order for you.”

  “Reports?” he said, feeling thick and stupid. She didn’t know about his search for his parents, so how could—

  “About what the Foreseers saw,” she explained. “There’s a protocol for such things, and a good thing too, considering how wild some of the rumors have gotten. All Foreseers are trained to either make notes on what they Saw immediately, when the vision or dream is over, or dictate to someone. And I have copies of many of them right here.” She patted a folder on her lap. “I can sum them up for you if you want, though, since they are all nearly identical.”

  Mags nodded, not trusting his voice.

  “Every vision was of the same thing, and every vision lasted about the same length of time—quite, quite short. They have the impression that this is the end of a fight. They first see the King, who is standing, but with a look of horror on his face, covered in blood, his hands also covered in blood. They then see what looks like a small, slight man, quite ragged, also covered in blood, with a knife in his hands. They get the impression that he is foreign-born. They get the impression that someone is dying and someone is badly wounded. And that is all.”

  Mags blinked. “That’s it? Ev’think else is just what summon made up?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. They don’t see the other man’s face. That’s all. They don’t know which of the two is dying, or wounded. They don’t even know if there is someone else dying or wounded that they can’t see, or even if there is an entire crowd there.”

  Mags didn’t know quite how to feel. On this slender thread was hanging all that hostility, all that anger—for what?

  “I think I wanta hurt someone,” he said finally. Amily nodded with sympathy. “I don’t blame you. The damage is done and it’s rather late to get things set straight.”

  He sighed and buried his face in his hands. After a while, he felt her slender arm around his shoulders, and she hugged him a little. “I’m sorry Mags, I wish there was something I could do. But at least—or, well, so I hear—Gennie is doing what can be done for now.”

  “Eh, she’s a good sort,” he mumbled. “Whole team is, akchully.”

  I cain’t go back t’ these people an’ point out what’s in the reports, cause that’ll only make things worse. But I got to know— He steeled himself, because he knew this was only going to make more pain for himself. “Amily, kin you an’ Lydia an’ Marc an’ all do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” she promised, still keeping her arm around his shoulders. And . . . it felt awfully good, that arm. Not like Lena, though Lena was a good friend, and could be quite comforting. No, this was something else. There was something about the warmth and pressure that made him feel odd, and a little light, and . . . well . . . tingly. He found himself wondering how long he could keep his head in his hands like this, as an excuse to keep her arm around him.

  “Wouldja all tell me ’xactly what yer hearin’ ’bout me?” he begged. “I mean, ev’thing. I’m mortal tired of seein’ people whisperin’ behind their hands. I wanta know the worst.”

  “Oh Mags . . .” she sounded as if she was going to cry. “It’s going to be nasty, I am sure of it, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I don’ wanna be hurt, but truth’s better’n not knowin’.”

  She sighed deeply. “All right. If that’s what you want.”

  He echoed her sigh. “Ain’t what I want, ’tis what I need.”

  “All right,” she repeated, and finally took her arm away. Feeling vaguely disappointed, he sat straight up.

  “Reckon I better go,” he said reluctantly.

  :Probably a good idea. You certainly are not going to get any studying done around Amily.:

  :Hush, you.:

  “I suppose you had better,” she replied wistfully, then brightened a little. “Just remember, you can always come up here and share my nook with me.”

  “I thought ye said ye ca
me here t’ be alone,” he replied, that odd, tingly feeling teasing at him again.

  “I said I came up here to get away from Father,” she corrected. “Alone—not necessarily.” She smiled at him, and he felt all lightheaded. Then she reached out and gave him a little kiss on the cheek, and he forgot to breathe.

  He didn’t actually remember saying goodnight, though he was sure he had; she kissed him, and the next thing he knew, he was halfway to the stables.

  :Well you’re certainly not shaych,: Dallen said, amused.

  :Uh, what?:

  :Never mind. Come do your studying and go to bed before you float away.:

  “. . . and that’s how you make an ankle-wrap that actually works,” Bear said, finishing off the wrapping with a flourish.

  Mags shook his head—and so did Lena. “I couldn’t make head or tail of the diagram in the book,” said Lena. “And yet it all seems so obvious when you do it.”

  Bear laughed, and shoved his lenses further up on his nose. “That’s because the diagram is wrong,” he said, and pointed to one picture in the middle. “See? That one there. Dunno what the engraver was thinking, but that’s not part of the sequence.”

  “I knew’d we was right t’ come talk t’ ye,” Mags said gratefully. “Uh . . .” he hesitated, then went on. “They still scratchin’ at ye t’ come home an’ get shackled?”

  Bear lost his good humor, and his lips thinned. “Aye. But I figured out how to stall them some more.”

  “How?” Lena demanded eagerly.

  “So, they haven’t got near enough Healers, right? Not anywhere?”

  They both nodded.

  Bear raised his head in triumph. “So where there are no Healers, if I’ve put together a standard medical pack that will treat just about anything, something every Herald can take on circuit—they can still get good treatment until help comes. It might not be as good as a good Healer, but it’ll be as good as a weak one, and a damn sight better than nothing at all! I can put together a really big kit for—oh, say Temples and things, and all the instructions you’d need.”

  “Oh Bear, that’s brilliant!” Lena enthused, looking happier. “How are you finding all the medicines you need?”

  “That’s where I become indispensible,” Bear said smugly. “Maybe there’s herb-Healers that know more than me out there somewhere, but they don’t have my resources and most importantly, they aren’t here. I know all the ways to treat things without a Gift, and I can write them down properly, not all wrong, like in that textbook you two brought me. I can make simpler, clearer diagrams. There are artists here that can draw them properly for me. The project has already been approved, and I’m formulating the medicines and figuring out how to pack them to give them the longest life.” He hesitated, then added, a little awkwardly, “The Head of Healers says that when the standard pack is finished and it’s been tested, if everyone is happy with it, they’ll give me my Greens. They say this will be the equivalent of riding Circuit for me. Then my family can go—find someone else to marry that girl. I’ll be a full Healer and I will be the one who says where I go and what I do. I figure I can stay here and teach people like me, find more medicines. Personally, I think we ought to be training more Healers that don’t have Healing Gift. There are a lot out there, midwives and that sort of thing, but they don’t think to come here for training. Or else, they can’t manage to get the means to get here.”

  Then he drooped again. “I got to get it done, though. Could take a year, maybe more. That’s the thing. I got to show plenty of progress, and some of this stuff is—hard. Coming up with medicines I know are going to be consistent, all the time. Writing out the directions. All that, and keep at my classes and—”

  “And keep at my classes an’ do whatever I’m sent off t’ do by Nikolas, an’ Kirball practice—” Mags interrupted.

  “And try and figure out what will make Father proud, and memorize my ballad cycle and get ready for the solo and ensemble trials—” put in Lena with a sigh.

  They looked at each other.

  “Ain’t we pitiful,” said Mags. He shook his head. “Complainin’ like that. Whine, whine, whine, like we was spoilt or somethin’.”

  “Well,” Lena said, finally. “It just doesn’t seem fair that we work so hard, and then we don’t get rewarded for it.”

  “If’n I had all the sparklies I pulled outa that mine in m’life, I’d prolly have m’own weight in sparklies,” Mags said sourly. “An’ thet goes fer the other kiddies, too. Life ain’t fair, an’ that’s that.”

  Bear’s mind was heavily guarded, but Lena’s surface thoughts were so strong he couldn’t help but know what she was thinking. Her father now knew she was here, and he hadn’t done anything at all about it. Not an apology, not a visit, not even a brief note. She could probably draw attention to herself by doing stupid things, showing off or challenging other students to music contests, but all that would do would be to disrupt other peoples’ lives and concentration, and if her father actually took notice of it, she was pretty certain the reaction would be negative.

  And that was not what she wanted.

  She just wanted him to look at her once, and say, “Well done, Lena.”

  She’d never tell Mags that, though, and not just because she was shy, but because Mags would never have his father look at him and tell him he had done well.

  Mags started to reach out to pat her hand—then he realized that Bear was awkwardly doing the same thing. He quickly pulled his own hand back, and let Bear complete the motion. “We’ll make it through,” Bear said, and rested his hand on hers.

  “Aye, ’cause we gotta,” Mags said, and stood up. “An thenkee, Bear, but I got to get.”

  They nodded. He let himself out, and looked back through the glass. They were still where he had left them, with Bear’s hand still on Lena’s.

  8

  THE Heraldic Archives proved to be the best place for Mags to go to get away from suspicious glances, for more reasons than one. As he had already known, almost no one came up there. The Archive room was above the Heralds’ Wing, and no matter what their feelings were, Heralds had very disciplined minds and tended to not leak any surface thoughts. That made any place around the Heralds’ Wing a very peaceful venue for someone like him. Proximity was everything when it came to what he picked up; the closer someone was, physically, the easier it was for him to “hear” them.

  And third? Well, third was Amily.

  It seemed that Amily did not spend her time up in the Archives merely to get some privacy. Amily was helping to put the Archives in order.

  When Mags left Bear and Lena, he decided that he’d take advantage of Amily’s little warm corner and get some more studying done. But when he opened the door on the Archives, instead of finding them deserted, he found all the lamps lit, and a very young fellow in Royal livery shelving several volumes under Amily’s direction. “Over there,” she was saying, as he carried what looked just like one of the boxes that the Guard reports were kept in. “Third shelf from the rear, south side, you’ll see the one right before it up on the shelf where you put it two days ago.” She made a little note.

  “Hullo!” he called, startling both of them. Amily’s eyes lit up.

  “Mags!” she said, and waved him over. “Mags, this is under-Archivist Jonson; he’s on loan to me from the Royal Library.”

  The young man was very young on closer inspection. He couldn’t have been much older than fourteen; he was, however, extraordinarily tall. “More like a jumped-up page,” the lad said. “I’m good for reaching the top shelves. But I want to be an Archivist, and I’ll shelve stuff forever if that is what it takes.”

  Amily smiled. “Very good at it you are, Jonson.” She spread her hands. “And this is what I do. Everyone needs a job, after all, and since I’m a Herald’s daughter, I’m probably the best one to know how to organize things here.”

  “I kin see thet,” Mags nodded. “An’—say, why don’t I give ye a hand? I don’ have hea
ps of time, but what I got, ye kin hev.”

  “Would you?” Amily asked, her face transformed by a smile.

  “ ’Course. Jest tell me whatcha want.”

  What she needed, it appeared, was for him to sort through piles of reports that had gotten muddled, either because they had been put back wrong or because someone had just tossed all the records in a box and shoved them up on the shelf. That had happened a lot. Amily wanted things to be as organized and tidy as they were in the Guard or Royal Archives.

  So Mags would give the reports a cursory skim, and determine who had written them, and sort them by author. Then he’d go back and sort each author pile by date. Then he would actually identify the major events in each sorted pile, mark those on the outside of the box along with the author and the start and end date and major area of the circuit, and that was how they would be filed. First, by the geographic location of the circuit, then by date within that location, and last of all by the name of the Herald. Or Heralds, because often as not, it was the Herald and one or more of the Herald’s Trainees. This was the old way, the way that was supposed to work so well.

  Just skimming the reports, Mags found out that it didn’t work all that well. It looked like the Heralds had to come to the rescue of their Trainees a great deal. Things that would have been minor problems here at the Collegium turned into much bigger problems when they were out there with—

  Well, with no one to help.

  Usually the situation wasn’t really hazardous. Usually. Nine times out of ten it was something stupid, something they made a mistake about and mucked up whatever it was that they were supposed to be fixing. And nine times out of ten the Herald would sort things out.

  But it took time, it delayed things, and to be honest, it made the Heralds look—

  :It makes us look bad.:

  :Aye, it do. Makes ye look . . . like ye cain’t even keep yerselves sorted, so how kin ye sort out th’ problems yer supposed to?: