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

by Mercedes Lackey

The book—the book—

  What did the book have to do with all of this?

  Mags tried to think what on earth there was about the book that had escaped everyone. Every single soul that knew how to look for such things had examined it. There were no false covers, there was no invisible ink. There was no way for packets of orders to be hidden in it.

  So why—

  Mags didn’t dare pause, for Temper, acting with that terrible urgency impelling him, was making his way from shadow to shadow with a speed that Mags could scarcely believe. The only possible way Mags had of trying to contact anyone up at the Collegium was to stop and concentrate, but he didn’t dare stop. If he did, he’d lose the man; if he lost the man and couldn’t say where or how the man was going to get in, the only choice would be to rouse the Collegium. If he did that, Temper would see and know that he had somehow been exposed, and he would vanish again. All that Mags could do for the moment was to stick with him, and hope that once they were on the grounds he could get hold of someone to raise a quiet alarm and ambush Temper as he searched for the book—the book—why the book? Why that book?

  Then, like a gift, another set of images flashed across his mind and into Mags’ grasp. And suddenly Mags knew why he wanted it. The thoughts were carried on waves of frustration and despair.

  The book was the key to a cipher he, and the rest, were using to communicate with their superiors.

  It was nearly unbreakable too, unless you had the key.

  The key was simple enough. Every fortnight it would change to the next set of lines in the given poem. Letters of the alphabet were assigned to the letters in those lines. There were further complications involving maths that Mags barely glimpsed and which made his head spin, but the basis was the changing lines of poetry in that book.

  The irony was, since no one in Haven had had any idea that they were getting secret orders—from whom? Mags couldn’t tell, that wasn’t in Temper’s surface-thoughts—the orders probably could have been written plainly.

  The problem was, Temper and his cohorts had come to the end of the poem they were using. The last message gave the number of the page the next one would be on. But they hadn’t memorized that, so even if they had memorized all the poems in the book, the odds of then remembering which one was on which page was rather slim.

  And they couldn’t tell that to their masters. The message delivery all went one way. Nor was there any possibility of getting another copy of the book.

  Not without going home. And anyone going home to report such failure would be killed. There was very little tolerance for mistakes; none at all for a mistake like this one.

  The man Mags called “Temper” slowed his pace.

  They were now among the homes of the well-to-do. There was great danger of being spotted here, there were many patrols of both the Watch and the Guard, and they were more alert to subtle signs of an interloper than were the ones down deeper into Haven, who watched mostly for overt violations of the law and crimes being committed openly on the streets. This was how Mags had gotten away with purloining so many dinners. Innkeepers and householders were expected to see to their own security. After all, there were only so many Watchmen and Guards, and far too many windows, doors, and roof-hatches.

  Ah, but here Mags had the advantage. He knew this part of Haven much better than Temper did. Now he could run ahead, while Temper only skulked—

  Or so he thought.

  To his chagrin and incredulity, he sensed Temper straighten, take a folded, sealed packet out of a pocket, and with that in his hand, stride confidently up the middle of the road. He was a man with a message to deliver, and no one was going to look at him twice. No, Mags would have to skulk; not even in the darkness was he going to pass as someone who belonged up here, as ragged and filthy as he was.

  At least he knew the area; he knew who had dogs, who had private guards, whether or not those guards were vigilant. So he followed Temper just out of sight, keeping walls and other obstructions between himself and the foreign agent, so that if Temper heard the sound of Mags’ bare feet on the pavement, he’d see nothing if he turned to look.

  He didn’t seem to hear anything, however, and Mags kept up a running, mostly inarticulate prayer that he wouldn’t.

  Mags was very aware of the nearness of the Palace, the looming walls that surrounded it, and that they were drawing nearer to it with every moment. There was an open space, officially designated as a park, between the last of the Great Manors and the walls around the Palace and Collegia.

  Here, the man paused; his mind closed to Mags’ as he searched intently for something. This was the back of the Palace, not far from Companions’ Field. There was nothing like a gate here; surely he wasn’t going to try and get over the wall!

  Even as Mags watched, that was exactly what he did.

  He raced across the open lawn, and if Mags hadn’t been watching him, he would never have seen him go. He took advantage of a cloud passing over the moon to run to the wall in that moving shadow.

  Then, impossibly, he jumped for the wall and scuttled up it like a spider, disappearing over the top.

  With a spasm of despair, Mags followed in his wake.

  18

  MAGS discovered why Temper had chosen that particular spot to go over the wall. A massive vine of some sort had grown up along it—it had rightfully been killed, but someone had carelessly left the main stem embedded in the wall. It was just as good as a ladder.

  That must have been how he and his cohorts had fled the Palace in the first place, after the blizzard. Whoever had left this thing here was going to get the sack at least—

  But that would be later. Right now—

  Mags tumbled over the top of the wall and rolled to land. Temper had a good lead on him now. They were right at the edge of Companion’s Field. From Temper’s fleeting thoughts, he had a good many paces lead over Mags at this point. Mags hurried to narrow that lead, and spotted the man—the shadow, rather, if he hadn’t been watching Temper’s thoughts, he wouldn’t have known it was a man—hiding in the shadow of the end of the stable that contained Mags’ own room. Mags took cover himself, and waited for Temper to make the next move.

  But if ’e goes straight fer the Guard Archives, I kin get t’ th’ stable, an’ get one’a the other Companions t’ wake up ’is Herald and—

  And that was when it all went horribly wrong.

  Temper was in sight of the Companion’s stable. His mind flashed over with that unholy glee and excitement, and the image of what he was going to do to distract everyone from his raid on the Archives branded itself into Mags’ mind.

  He was going to barricade the doors, and set fire to the Companions’ Stable.

  Horror washed over Mags. Oh, the others would be able to get out—they could batter the wooden doors down, and no Companion was going to be as terrified by fire as a horse. But Dallen couldn’t. Dallen was drugged and the next thing to immobile. He would be trapped in there while the stable burned around him. The moment the others broke the doors down, flaming debris would fly inside, setting fire to all that straw and hay—

  He’d be trapped, helpless.

  Terror ripped through Mags like a lightning strike; there was no time to spare, no time to use Mindspeech to wake the people he knew, no time to do anything except rouse everyone his thoughts could reach, and fast. Except he didn’t know how to do that the way that, say, Rolan did it. He could “shout,” but only to the limited number of people he knew. So he did what he had been told, over and over again, never to do.

  He dropped his shields. All of them, even the ones that had been up and protecting him before he even knew there was such a thing as a Gift, before he really knew there was much of a world outside the mine. Everything went down, so that he, in turn, could reach everyone.

  And as the dozens, hundreds of minds up here rushed in on him, battering him from all sides, he screamed his warning into them. Even into the mind of Temper, who was frozen in place for a moment as the i
mage of what he had intended to do came flooding back at him, laden with a burden of warning, panic, and terror.

  The response came back to Mags, redoubled. All those minds, some shocked awake, all taken by surprise, all jolted by his panic and responding with panic of their own. What! What! WHAT!!

  Feeling as if he was in the center of a cave-in, Mags struggled to get his shields back up. Struggled, and failed. It felt as if his head was going to break into a million pieces; a hundred images flashed in front of him, and he couldn’t tell which belonged to him. Voices in his mind babbled, shouted, at him, and he couldn’t understand any of them. His brain burned and it was all he could do to stand erect and he felt his very hold on sanity slipping.

  But Dallen was in danger.

  Dallen was in danger.

  Scarcely able to see for the conflicting images in his head, stumbling and disoriented, nevertheless, he rushed for Temper. Dallen was in danger. That was all that mattered; he had to get to Temper before Temper could move.

  He reached the man just as Temper recovered from the mental blow, and somewhere under the battering of a thousand confused thoughts, he knew that he had never done anything this stupid before . . .

  He lurched at Temper with his hands out, staggering like a drunk, barely able to control his own body enough to run at the man. He—and a hundred others through his eyes—saw Temper pull his dagger and slash at him with it. Temper was moving slowly though, very slowly, not like—a hundred others saw/felt the memory of Temper’s kill—when he murdered that poor thief.

  Temper recoiled, his mind reflexively lashing out. Mags stumbled and fell, which is what saved him from Temper’s first slash.

  Enraged, afire with uncontrolled anger, Temper came at him again, just as—a myriad of confused minds tried to shove him away—Mags managed to get to his feet. Temper slashed at him again—not the controlled and calculated movement of a skilled knife-fighter, but the flailing of someone who barely knew which end of the knife to hold.

  It didn’t matter. The knife scored a painful slash across Mags’ ribs.

  The pain was what saved him, momentarily at least.

  As the blade burned across his chest, that same pain made his shields snap back up.

  He gasped with mingled agony and relief as his mind cleared. Unfortunately, so did Temper’s. The man’s stance changed immediately, and he snapped into a knife-fighter’s crouch. Mag knew in an instant that he was in trouble. The best he could hope for would be to stay out of reach.

  Which, as Temper’s arm lashed out, was not looking likely; he moved faster than anyone that Mags had ever seen. Mags managed to evade him, but barely, and Temper was right on top of him before he had any right to be.

  Mags’ shields dropped again; he staggered as too many minds to count shrieked into his. Nearest was the white rage of Temper, incandescent with fury—and somehow, Mags reflected some of that incoherent anger right back at him, causing him to stagger and miss.

  Vaguely he was aware of every window in Heralds’ Collegium lighting up, of people boiling out of the building, of the Companions in their stable beside him screaming with rage and battering at the barricaded doors. Temper slashed at him again, then rushed him.

  Temper’s shoulder hit him right where he’d been cut; he gasped with pain, and his shields snapped back up again. He managed to shove Temper off, and stagger a few paces away.

  Temper rushed him again; he ducked to the side, getting another cut across the bicep in the process.

  The pain kept him steady, kept his shields up, but he was fighting for his life, and he knew it. And he was in worse shape than he had been when he’d been fending off Bear’s kidnapper. He was wheezing already, and his side burned.

  Temper’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced to the side. People seemed to have figured out that the stable was where they should be, and a mob was heading in their direction.

  Mags half expected Temper to say something when his eyes returned to Mags. He didn’t. In fact, he gave Mags no warning at all.

  One moment he was crouched a few arm-lengths away. Mags didn’t even see him start to move.

  Then Mags’ back hit the stable wall, knocking the breath out of him. Temper’s forearm was across his throat.

  And white-hot pain lanced out from the center of his gut.

  He screamed and his shields went down—he blasted his agony out and Temper staggered back, both hands to his temples. Mags lunged at him, his gut still on fire, both hands going for Temper’s knife. He had to get it away from the man—had to, or he was dead.

  He grappled with Temper, feeling his strength ebbing. Somehow he got both his hands on the knife-hand. His knees gave, and he pulled Temper down as he dropped to the ground. Somehow Temper ended up underneath him. He smashed Temper’s knife-hand on the ground but the man would not let go of the blade.

  Mags snarled, stooped, and bit the hand holding the knife, his teeth sinking into the flesh below the thumb until he drew blood, tasted the flat, sweetness of the blood, felt bones snap under his teeth.

  The dagger fell away, into the dirt.

  Mags snatched it up.

  Now it was only one mind, filling his, and overpowering it with anger and death. His eyes widened and he ground his teeth with rage. He didn’t even think—he just picked up the knife in both hands and drove it down into the thing underneath him, over and over and over again—

  Temper uttered a surprised sounding gurgle—and died.

  The rage died with him.

  Abruptly emptied, Mags sat there for a moment, the bloody knife still poised in midair.

  Then someone else hit him from the side, and his gut erupted with fire again. He curled in around the agony, blood oozing into his hands as he clutched his middle. His shields came down, snapped up, came down, snapped up, as the world spun around him and—dozens of babbling, angry voices—his gut screamed and—Who, what, why, who—his vision blurred, he looked up to see the King with the knife in his hands, and the front of his Whites dyed with blood, and—blood, death, rage, rage, rage—he looked down to see his own hands dripping with blood and—who, death, what, blood, rage—

  Somehow he staggered to his feet. Somehow, with one hand clutching his stomach, he started to reach out. Somehow—

  Then all the voices in his head shrieked at once, and he reflected, blasted it all back at them and—

  He felt impact at the back of his head.

  Then . . .

  An explosion of light.

  He went down. But he held to a thin, thin strand of consciousness, falling in and out of blankness.

  “. . . how did he get in . . .”

  “. . . how did both . . .”

  “. . . saw him stabbing . . .”

  Shouting. Hooves battering wood. Splintering wood.

  Blankness. Then, something white, enormous, big as a house, and white, standing over him. Warm, sweet, hay-scented breath washing over him, taking some of the pain. Closing off some of the minds screaming in his head.

  “Rolan! What in the name of—”

  A snort. A hoof pawing the ground impatiently beside Mags’ head.

  “That’s who? Mags? Then who is—”

  “Never mind that, for the gods’ sake, get a Healer here!”

  And that was when, mercifully, it all began to fade, voices, pain and all, leaving behind nothing but quiet, darkness, and peace.

  He woke up with the warm sunlight pouring down on him, and the familiar sharp scents of herbs and soap around him. Huh. Reckon I know where I am.

  :I rather thought you would. Welcome back, Mags.:

  :So how beat up’m I this time?: He was disinclined to move, because he really didn’t want to spoil things with pain right now. He could feel a lot of bandages around his midsection, though.

  :A slash across the ribs, one across the bicep that is rather deep, and three gut-wounds that by some miracle did not touch anything vital. Altogether, considering who you faced—:

  He restrained a shi
ver, because it would hurt. :Damn lucky. I saw ’im take out that thief. I seen lightnin’ strike slower. Did I kill ’im?:

  Dallen sighed. :Unfortunately yes. Then again, questioning might not have gotten anything out of him anyway.:

  Mags didn’t consider it unfortunate at all, but he didn’t say anything. Considering how slippery Temper had been, there was no telling if they would have been able to hold him, much less question him.

  :Which one was he?:

  :Surprisingly, not the chief of the alleged delegation. In fact, I am not sure you ever actually saw him when they were all up here at the Palace. He was one of the underlings, not one of the bodyguards. Or at least, he was feigning to be.:

  :Huh.: Mags considered that. :That makes sense, actually. Best place t’ hide.:

  :So I am told. Well, it looks like both of us will be ready to start Kirball practice at about the same time.: Dallen seemed inclined to change the subject, and but Mags wasn’t going to let him.

  :So who hit me?:

  :Which time?:

  Mags thought about that for a moment. :Who hit me i’ th’ head?:

  :That would have been Herald Yvanda. I am told she smacked you with a large branch.:

  That would account for the big bump back there. :Who knocked me offa Temper?:

  :That would be the King. He was the first one there, because he was actually in the stable. He had to climb up into the loft and get down out of the hay door.:

  :Bloody ’ell.: Mags wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or full of admiration. Both, probably.

  :There are going to be some changes made to the stable,: Dallen added, a bit grimly. :More than one door, and breakaway hinges. I’m afraid that the place is built a little too well.:

  :Aye.: He thought about how close Dallen had come to being roasted, and this time couldn’t hold back the shudder.

  :But now the vision is explained. It was your blood the King was covered in. They were rather appalled when they saw how thoroughly you had dispatched the man you called Temper, but then most of them had been experiencing what you did as your shields went up and down, and on reflection, the general consensus is that they are surprised you hadn’t diced him into a thousand pieces.: