Amily giggled a little. “No, it’s an actual game. Fancy, a girl is going to have to explain football to a boy!” She found this very funny, although he didn’t see why. “People play football all over Valdemar. It’s very popular. I know enough about it to explain it.”
So she did; evidently this was a kicking game with a ball, one that was a little bigger than a Kirball. It was played by two teams—on a flat, rectangular field with a goal at either end. The field was much smaller than the one for Kirball, and was generally grassed over. You were allowed to kick or hit the ball, you just weren’t allowed to pick it up and run with it.
“Why?” Mags said, finally, when she got done explaining how villages would compete with each other, and how there were many teams down in Haven composed of players from various Guilds and professions—and many more that were just friends getting together. “Why go t’ all that fuss an’ work t’ do somethin’ like that? I mean, ’f I had a day free from hard work, I sure wouldn’ wanta spend it kickin’ at a ball!” He shook his head. “At the mine, all we wanted t’ do when we wasn’t workin’ was t’ hunt fer food an’ sleep.”
“It’s . . . fun,” Amily said slowly. “It’s fun for the people playing it. It’s fun to watch. It’s fun to support one team or another. Well, at least it is for people who aren’t as desperate as the people in your mine were. When you aren’t starving or exhausted, people do all sorts of odd things for fun. Didn’t you have fun out there playing Kirball? It looked as if you did.”
He thought about it. “Reckon . . . I did,” he said, after a moment, feeling surprised. “I mean, I got on ’cause Caellan, y’ know, Dean of Collegium wanted me to. An’ yer Pa seemed t’ want me to. So I did, an’ it was kinda like another class fer me. But . . . aye, now ye say, I reckon it was fun.” He thought about it some more. “Y’know, I think I’d play it even if it wasn’t like a class.”
“Well, that’s why. And when the East and West meet, you’ll see it’s fun to watch, too.” She nodded decisively, and would have said more, except that they heard the door to the Archives open and footsteps coming toward them across the wooden floor. Two sets of footsteps. They both looked up to see Lena and a handsome man in Bardic Scarlet approaching them from out of the shadows at the door end of the Archives. Mags knew that face all too well.
Bard Marchand, Lena’s father.
Now that Mags had leisure to study him, he couldn’t say he liked the man any better. The Bard had a classically chiseled face of the sort you would expect to see on a heroic statue. He wore his dark hair a little long, and there was gray at both temples. His eyes were a common enough brown, with disconcertingly long lashes, but despite the long lashes there was nothing effeminate about him. He moved with the confidence of someone who expects everyone else to get out of his way, and he carried himself as if he expected to be the center of attention. He wasn’t as heavily muscled as a Herald or a fighter of some sort would be, but he was lean and fit.
Lena had a sort of tremulously hopeful look on her face. But the expression on Bard Marchand’s was a bit more difficult to read. It looked a little like avidity, which was a strange expression, considering the circumstances.
“Mags, this is my father, Bard Marchand; he wanted to meet and talk to you,” Lena said, and her anxious thoughts were so strong they spilled past Mags’ shields. Please be nice to him, he finally noticed me! Mags blinked a little to realize that there was something else going on with her as well . . . as the Healer had said, he got an inkling of the emotions that were driving her as well. Certainly not enough to be uncomfortable or intrusive for him, and he was sure he could shield them out if he wished to, but he knew very well how anxious she was even without reading her expression.
“Father,” she said, with a touch of desperation. “This is Trainee Mags.”
They both ignored Amily, which was uncharacteristically rude on Lena’s part.
Mags would cheerfully have snubbed the man—who clearly had no idea that this was the same Trainee he’d sent on a servant’s errand to make another servant of the King’s Own mere weeks ago. But he couldn’t spoil this for Lena.
On the other hand, he didn’t exactly have to be “himself” for the Bard, either. This was an excellent opportunity for some misdirection.
:Good idea, Mags.: Dallen was irritated. :Whatever he wants, make him work for it.:
“Pleased t’ meetcher, Bard Marchand,” he said, and immediately put on his thickest accent and an amiable-but-stupid expression. He thrust out his hand; Bard Marchand took it with a bit of hesitation. He pumped the Bard’s hand with great enthusiasm and exactly as if he was working a pump handle, before letting go of it.
“Pleased to meet you at last, Trainee Mags,” said the Bard, flexing his fingers gingerly, although he didn’t make a great show of doing so. That was a little odd. It couldn’t have been because Mags had crushed his hand with a hard grip; Mags knew better than to pull that kind of game with a Bard (someone who needed his fingers intact) even if he didn’t like the man.
No, he got the flash of an impression that Marchand was keeping himself from pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his hand off only by force of will. As if he expected that Mags would be dirty, or something.
Nice, he thought sourly.
“This here purty filly’s Amily,” he said, since Marchand was still ignoring the other person in the room as utterly unimportant. Time to display the fact that he, at least, had some manners. “She be Herald Nikolas’ daughter.”
A flicker of recognition passed across the Bard’s face, and a flicker of chagrin as he must have realized that Amily was too important a personage to continue to ignore, especially after that dressing-down he’d gotten from Master Bard Lita. “Ah,” the Bard said, turning toward her and beaming the full force of his personality at her as he scooped up her hand and kissed the fingertips. “Enchanted. I had no idea my old friend Nikolas had such a lovely daughter.” It was easy to see how the Bard charmed his admirers; although this wasn’t— quite—the application of his Gift, the Bard had a full measure of charisma and clearly was used to employing it with great precision.
Amily flushed, but only Mags knew it was not with pleasure. “I prefer to stay quietly out of the public eye, Bard Marchand,” she said with an edge to her voice under the sweetness. “I’ve no taste for court maneuverings, and I suppose you would say I am something of a bookworm. Father indulges my taste for solitude.”
“What kin we be a-doin’ fer ye, Bard Marchand?” Mags said, letting his voice take on tones of faintly servile admiration. The man lived on flattery, it seemed, so . . . give him what he wanted and see what came of it. “ ’M jest a Trainee, cain’t think what brung ye up here, ’less ye wanta know stuff’s in Archives.”
“Oh, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to give me your view of the events of this winter, and the discovery of those vile miscreants in Haven a few days ago, Trainee?” Marchand continued, turning back to Mags with a coaxing manner. “I understand you had a firsthand view of them during their stay at the Palace, and were instrumental in discovering that they were still in Haven.” He smiled. “It’s all fodder for work, of course. And while I am sure that you have already told others of my calling all about those events, a Bard is doing less than his duty if he fails to get the tale directly from those who lived it. The Dean of your Collegium himself advised that I speak directly to you when I enquired of the matter.”
For a moment Mags wondered if that last was a lie. He wouldn’t put anything past Marchand, if Marchand wanted something badly enough, including lying about whether Herald Caelan had actually sent him.
But . . . no, probably not. He might be self centered, but he wasn’t stupid, and it would be ridiculously easy for Mags to catch him in a lie, even if Mags was as dull as he was pretending to be. It was very likely he’d be caught out, in fact; Mags would certainly say something about it to Caelan the next time he saw the Dean. After all, Bard Marchand was wildly popular and wildly famous
, and it would be natural for Mags to be flattered that he had been singled out, and just as natural to thank the Dean for the opportunity to meet the Bard.
Well, natural in Marchand’s eyes, anyway.
:Humph. Indeed. He thinks the world is always watching him.:
:I’d like t’ be watching th’ back of him as he leaves, right now.:
The fastest way to be rid of him would be to tell him the bare, unvarnished truth in as few words as possible; use that veneer of stupid stolidity to Mags’ advantage. Someone as dense as Mags wanted to seem would have little or no imagination, and might be so overwhelmed by the “honor” of Marchand’s attention that he could only manage to get out simple sentences.
So that was what Mags did; keeping the tale spare, staring without comprehension when Marchand asked him things like “But what did you think of that?” or “But how did you feel?”
“Don’t rightly know, Bard,” would usually be his reply, as he would let a puzzled expression creep across his face.
This set him down in Marchand’s mind as a singularly unimaginative, stolid country bumpkin, which suited Mags perfectly.
But it was painfully clear as the questioning continued, that Marchand also considered him to be, if not an actual “hero,” certainly a proto-hero, and one with a great deal of potential. Precisely what Mags did not want him to think. Marchand kept dropping flattering little comments about how brave he was for one so young, and how he surely had a bright future ahead of him. There was no doubt in Mags’ mind that Marchand was not going to be satisfied with this single encounter. He was trying to cultivate Mags.
And Mags kept saying things like “Eh, ’twas all Dallen,” and “I didn’ git a chance t’ think, belike.” And it didn’t seem to help.
:I’ll say this for him, his instincts are very good when it comes to spotting those who are likely to make good songfodder,: Dallen admitted reluctantly. :And even better for spotting those who can help him enlarge his own fame.:
And when the conversation shifted to the new game of Kirball, it was obvious that Marchand’s interest was not feigned—though he seemed less interested in the game itself than in the players. Mags was a Kirball champion, at least for now, which also made him a desirable—acquaintance?
:No,: Dallen said sourly. :Acquisition. Marchand acquires people. People he thinks other people will want to know. I am afraid he has decided that you are a very desirable target, probably more for Kirball than for the business with the foreigners. The latter could have been due to mere happenstance, you being in the right place at exactly the right time, then acting like a Herald should. The former is something that is going to be popular, and if Marchand knows nothing else, he is superb at riding waves of popularity. Watch out, or he’ll invite you to—:
“I am going to stage a small concert for just a few friends,” the Bard said smoothly. “I’m sure you’d like to attend, and I am equally sure my friends would enjoy discussing this new game with you. I’m going to hold it tomorrow night, after the Court dinner.”
Mags was about to open his mouth to come up with some excuse why he couldn’t attend, when the Bard’s next words stopped him dead.
“Lena is going to sing as well, aren’t you, my dear?” the Bard said, as Lena nodded. “It’s so important for a young Bardic student to get early exposure to audiences other than their friends and teachers. Good training for what is to come. There is nothing so important to a Bard as being able to gauge his audience within a few moments, ascertain what their mood is, and at need, what direction to steer that mood.”
Lena looked so thrilled that she was going to be performing in the same venue as her father that Mags could not bear to mar that happiness in any way.
And Marchand surely knew that. He might not know that Mags had helped to steady Lena during her first contest, but he absolutely knew that Mags was one of Lena’s best friends and steadfast supporters, and that Mags would never abandon her to face a room full of strangers on her own.
“We’ll be glad to come, Amily an’ me,” Mags said then, deciding that if he was going to be blackmailed into this, he was going to make Marchand pay for it another way. Snub Amily, ye smug peacock, I dare ye! “Amily missed Lena’s contest; she’ll be a mort glad t’ hear ’er sing now!”
Marchand was clearly taken aback, but there was no way now that he could just come out and say “but I only invited you” without looking unforgivably rude. “Good, then,” he replied, plastering a smile on his face. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing both of you. Right after Court dinner; it will be one of the rooms off the Great Hall. Lena can come and fetch you, so you don’t get lost in the Palace.”
Nice. Treat Lena like a servant, like ye treated me.
:Giving Lena no preparation time for her performance,: commented Dallen.
:’Cept we know her an’ we know she’ll hev prepped herself all day,: Mags replied. :He really don’t know her at all, does he?:
:Not in the least.:
“Thank you, dear, for bringing me here and introducing me to your friend,” Marchand continued. “Now I must be off, and you must go on to your classes. And I see that I was interrupting some work here, so I am sure I shouldn’t continue to do so. Until tomorrow night!”
He turned with a flourish, and made an exit, with Lena pattering along beside and a little behind him, just like an obedient, devoted spaniel.
Amily bent her head over the papers for a moment, and it was clear she was furious. Finally she said something.
“Oh, that man.”
It was more restrained than he expected.
“I don’ like ’im, not one bit,” Mags said, “ ’E makes me skin crawl.”
“Well, he is clear proof that talent and a Gift don’t make you a wonderful person,” Amily said sourly. “It makes me wish that there was a better way of selecting Bards than just judging what they can do. Someone like that should . . .” She paused, and then said, unexpectedly, “Do you know why he tries to humiliate my father every chance he gets? Did Father tell you?”
Mags shook his head.
:Oh, this could be interesting.: He felt Dallen settle back, waiting for the revelation.
:Yer a worse gossip than a old woman.:
:It’s only gossip if you repeat it. Until then, it’s gathering information.:
“Because many years ago, when they were both Trainees, my father was party to something that Marchand would really rather no one else knew.” Her lips tightened. “And I shouldn’t tell you this, and I wouldn’t, except that you are in Father’s confidence. What happened was that he was in the same room when Marchand was getting a dressing-down from the Dean of Bardic for some incredibly selfish thing he had done. Father never told me what it was, but given Marchand, he probably used his Gift to get something he wanted to the detriment of someone else.”
“Like, usin’ it t’ hev his way wi’ a servant, or somethin’?” Mags hazarded. He could easily imagine that. Anything from getting the servant to do something he wasn’t supposed to, or finagling a girl into his bed.
Amily nodded. “Probably wenching,” she said, confirming Mags’ guess. “They were both about sixteen at the time. My father was the witness to it, so the Dean had him in the office to confirm the accusation. Whatever it was isn’t important . . . what’s important is that he did something that was in violation of Bardic ethics.”
“It couldn’ have been huge,” Mags pointed out. Then hesitated. “Could it?”
“Well . . . that’s the question. I mean, not life-threatening huge, but I would say very serious. The thing is that the Dean really lost his temper with Marchand, and told Marchand with Father there—” She paused, and closed her eyes, as if making sure of the memory. “ ‘The only reason we allow you to continue here is because, with a Gift as strong as yours, we dare not let you off our leash. You are like a dangerous animal, Trainee, but you are one of us by virtue of that Gift, and the Bardic Circle will not abandon their responsibilities in the matter of ho
w you use that Gift. We will control you, Marchand, if you do not learn to control yourself and abide by the rule of ethics and law.’ ”
Mags felt his jaw dropping open with shock. Well, that explained a lot. “Anyone else know this?” he gasped.
“The Dean, who’s dead now, Father, me, the King, Marchand himself, and now you,” Amily said gravely. “Father told me and the King. I very much doubt the Dean told anyone. Marchand knows that as long as he stays just on the edge of the line, so to speak, my father won’t ever say or do anything about what he knows. So he doesn’t actually use his Gift to get things he wants directly, he just uses it to charm people into wanting to give him what he wants.” She paused. “I don’t think he’s actually evil, just incredibly selfish. I don’t think anyone matters to him except as a means to getting what he wants.”
“Gah.” Mags felt sick. “So thet’s why he ain’t in the Ruling Circle e’en though he’s a Master Bard.”
Amily nodded. “Exactly. He will never be on the Council or in the Ruling Circle. The King will always veto him. I don’t know if anyone has ever guessed why for certain, but most of the high ranking Bards feel about him the way you do, and the plain fact is they all know he is far too selfish to ever be allowed real political power, because . . . he wouldn’t actually abuse it as such, but he would never use it for anything other than what suited his own ends. His ‘friends’ are mostly what I would call patrons and admirers. In fact, I don’t know that he actually has what I would call a real friend.”
Mags pursed his lips thoughtfully. This really explained a lot. He knew that Lena’s family was very well off, and it wasn’t from any income that Marchand might bring in. “Lena’s Mama?” he asked tentatively. “She one of those patrons, like? Thet why ’e married ’er?”
“Lena’s mother has piles of money,” Amily confirmed. “He charmed all of the family, married her, fathered Lena, and now only has to appear home for a few days a year to keep them all dazzled. Or so Father says. I don’t see any reason to disagree with that.”
Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Page 21