Changes v(cc-3

by Mercedes Lackey

  But as the night wore on, people came in who were not honest. There was no reason why a fellow with dirt caked black under his fingernails and who clearly had not washed himself nor changed his clothing in a year would own six silver spoons, nor why a woman with paint caked on her face so thick it was cracking and a threadbare velvet gown so low-cut Mags was afraid her breasts were going to pop out of it should have a double handful of silk handkerchiefs, both plain and embroidered. Nikolas bargained with both of them as sharply as he had the gem thief, and with as little evidence that he cared where the loot had come from or how the possessor had acquired it.

  Finally, as the trickle of customers slowed and dried up and Mags judged it was getting near dawn, the first man came in again.

  “Here!” he said, thrusting something under the bars. “Now thet’ll be worth somethin’!”

  Nikolas gestured to Mags, who left off his braiding and joined the Herald at the counter. On the worn wood between them was a brooch set with carnelians and silkstone cabochons. Not worth much in and of themselves, but the workmanship of the brooch itself was incredible, made all of twisted wires of a metal that was so red it looked a little like copper—but which proved on application of the touchstone to be gold. And not plated, either.

  Who would mount common stones in a setting of gold wires?

  “Huh,” Nikolas said, and stroked his chin. “Huh. I don’t rightly know how t’value that. ’Tis gold. Carnelian and silkstone ain’t worth a lot. But setting—’tis gold. I could gi’ ye th’ gold-weight value... I don’ s’pose this’s somethin’ nobody’d miss.” The last was said with so much sarcasm the words practically sank beneath the weight.

  “H’actually, they won’t,” the man said smugly. “I got yon off a corpus. ’E won’t be lookin’ for it, and I misdoubt there’s any sad relations about to shout thief.”

  “Grave robbin’, now, are ye?” Nikolas cackled. “But if yon relations should come ’cross it in me shop—”

  “They won’t. Or if they do, they won’t say nothin’.” The man grinned smugly. “Furriners what weren’t s’possed t’be here. Fool got hisself kilt by dray wagon this mornin’, an’ his friends lit out babblin’ in some furrin tongue. I might’ve been follerin’ ’em, seein’ as furriners don’t know city an’ might need a guide.”

  “Big of ye,” Nikolas said with a snort. “Right, then. I can gi’ ye a bit now an’ a bit more once I make sure this ain’t gonna bring no trouble to m’shop. Here’s gold-weight value—” He shoved a few silver pennies under the bars. “Come back termorrow an’ ye’ll mebbe get that agin.” The man reached for the money, but Nikolas seized his wrist. “Not so fast. I gi’ ye twice as much, if’n ye kin find out where these furriners be bidin’.”

  The man stilled. “Who wants t’know?”

  Nikolas laughed. “Ye think I’m so daft as t’tell ye, so’s ye kin run to ’em an’ collect my fee?” He let go of the man’s wrist.

  ::He really does look like a weasel,:: Dallen marveled, watching through Mags’ eyes. Mags kept his shoulders hunched over and his head down. He was actually beginning to enjoy this.

  Now, he himself wasn’t at all sure that the brooch was from their murderous “guests.” It wasn’t of a style like anything he had ever seen before, but as he had come to know, there was a great deal of Valdemar out there, and beyond the borders of Valdemar, there were a lot of strange places and people.

  Still, if the Weasel was known for taking in things like this, some other trinket might lead them to their targets.

  ::Is there any way you could tell for certain where this is from?:: Nikolas asked, as the thief rubbed his wrist.

  ::Not really. Not like stones got liddle maps on ’em sayin’ where they come from. Might could be a Gift thet could tell ye where it’s been, but I ain’t got it. Mebbe I could look at them books the buggers left behind an’ see if’n the designs look alike, but—:: He wanted to shrug, but didn’t. No giving the game away by something out of character. ::I’d’a thunk an art-feller would be more like t’tell ye yea or nay on thet score.::

  “I take all the risk, an’ you get all the profit!” the thief whined. “Now I ask you, is that fair?”

  Nikolas laughed nastily. “Oh, aye, a lot of risk ye took, takin’ it off a dead man! Afraid he’s gonna haunt ye?”

  The thief looked around uneasily. Nikolas laughed again. “Ye got to do next thing t’nothing to get twice what ye got fer this trinket. Keep it in mind.” He shoved the money all the way to the other side of the bars. “I buy lotsa stuff that ain’t trinkets. People pay me t’find out things. I pay people t’find ’em out for me. Understand?”

  “Aye, Weasel. But it still ain’t fair—”

  Nikolas snorted. “Ye want fair, go get yer friends t’gether an’ make yerself a guild so ye can make yerself rules ’bout what’s what! Fair!” He laughed through his nose. “A Thieves’ Guild! Ha! That there might be funniest notion I heard all year!”

  The thief looked at him sourly but did not dispute any further with him. He scooped up his money and left, looking entirely disgruntled. Nikolas slipped the brooch into a secure pocket inside his tunic. Mags went back to braiding horsehair.

  Eventually Nikolas went to a cupboard with a lot of little drawers and rummaged around in it, coming out with a handful of curious beads. He handed these to Mags, who studied them.

  No two were alike; they looked like something out of a magpie’s hoard, if the magpie had excellent taste. There were carved stone, glass, enameled metal, and carved wood with a faint, exotic sweet scent to it. The one thing they all had in common was large holes, fully large enough for him to slip the round braided horsehair through. So he did just that with one of the enameled ones, secured it in the middle with a knot on either side, and finished the braid off with a loop and another intricate knot. He held it up to Nikolas, as if for approval.

  ::Very clever! Yes, that will give you an excuse to be here,:: said Nikolas. The Weasel, however, just grunted, snatched the bracelet, and hung it on a nail at eye level. Mags started a necklace.

  By the time they left for the night, he’d made three pieces of jewelry and “sold” one—“sold” being relative, since another slattern, younger than the first and with only a smear of red lip paint, traded some of her offerings for a necklace with a porcelain bead covered in a garden of miniature flowers. It made him almost sad to see her put it around her neck; for a moment he could see what she might have been—and at the same time, what she was going to become.

  He wondered how Nikolas could stand it, being in this shop night after night, seeing these people come in, some of whom were merely victims of appalling luck or very bad choices... .

  ::I stand it because there are some I can help,:: Nikolas said as if he had read Mags’ thought. Or perhaps he had read the expression on Mags’ face. ::That one—maybe. That bead is worth five times what I traded her for it, but I don’t think she’s going to let go of it easily, and it might be that little bit of beauty in her life will remind her that she can make other choices than she has.::

  Mags was dubious... but... well, why not. Why not hope for her? So long as there was no expectation with that hope. Expectations, now, that was what bit you every time.

  Hope for the best, expect nothing.

  ::Not that long ago, you hoped for nothing as well.:: Dallen chuckled.

  ::Aye, well, this big white mule seemsta hev corrupted me.::

  He sensed Dallen’s snort of derision at the same time that Nikolas straightened his back and stretched, then turned and cuffed him in the ear.

  Well, made it look as if he had been cuffed. The fist merely grazed his ear and whiffed through his hair, but Mags had the sense to act as if he had been hit. He cringed and made a little animal moan.

  Nikolas grabbed his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. “Come along, ye gurt fool,” he growled. “Time t’be getting’ home.”

  Nikolas blew out lanterns and locked up, making sure the foreign-looki
ng brooch was in his pocket. Then he trudged up the street, Mags following with his back hunched. It was still as black as night, but Mags knew the “feel” of things, and dawn wasn’t far off by his reckoning.

  He was beginning to feel the effects of the long night; he was glad that he was moving, because he knew the moment he closed his eyes, he would start to nod off. He and Nikolas could scrounge something out of the kitchen, he was sure, though it was far too early for even the kitchen staff to be awake. Then he could actually get a good seven, maybe eight candlemarks of sleep. Much better than he had reckoned he would get; he had expected he would not see his bed until after dawn.

  The inn was without lights at the back where they slipped in, and as silent as if it were populated only by the dead. They changed back into their uniforms and went out to the stable, where a sleepy hostler, awakened by the Companions, had just finished saddling them.

  “They kept ye might late, Herald,” the hostler said, though with no hint of complaint in his voice.

  “Actors,” Nikolas said in a tone of weary amusement, while Mags yawned ostentatiously. “They think because they can sleep all day and carouse all night, the rest of the world does the same.”

  “Aye, well, ye know what ye be getting into, Herald, any time they ask ye to stay,” the hostler said with a yawn of his own and a chuckle. “It ain’t as if ye haven’t been here afore.”

  Then he leaned over and whispered. “New lad. Not sure he’s asleep.”

  “Good man,” Nikolas whispered back and slipped him a couple of coins for his trouble. “Well, then. Till the next time my feelings of friendship overcome my good sense.”

  The hostler merely waved to them as they rode out of the stable doors.

  Mags’ whole thought at this point was for his bed. It appeared that Nikolas was like-minded, for the two of them practically flew up the hill to the Collegium, with both Companions moving at a very brisk trot, and there still wasn’t any light showing in the sky by the time they parted at the stable door.

  “I left word with one of the servants I trust to leave some breakfast waiting for you in your room, Mags,” Nikolas told him as they hastily stripped the Companions of tack and stowed it. Fortunately so short a ride meant neither needed to be groomed, and although both of them had probably dozed some, it could not have been the sort of restful sleep they really needed.

  “Thenkee, sir—” Mags began, but Nikolas waved him off.

  “Part of what I do for you at the moment; when you make your own contacts among the servants, you’ll handle these things for yourself. Now go and eat and get some sleep. You did will tonight. And, oh—” he handed Mags the brooch. “Study that while you are still awake, and give me your thoughts later.”

  He took it. “I will, sir, but—”

  Nikolas just waved off his unvoiced objections, then headed for his own rooms and bed.

  Nikolas had been as good as his word. There were pocket pies of the savory and sweet sort both, exactly the sort of thing that kept well and tasted fine cold. Someone had left a “sweating” crock set up for him as well—this was a sort of half-glazed vessel with a wooden spigot on the bottom that kept whatever was in it remarkably cool by evaporation through the unglazed portion. The cool water in it tasted as sweet as anyone could wish.

  Following Nikolas’ orders, Mags studied the brooch as he ate his pies neatly and methodically. The cabochon-cut stones were nothing remarkable, though the finishing was very fine. The rose-gold told him nothing. The designs . . .

  He caught his eyes unfocusing and his head nodding.

  Not gonna get anything more done t’night, he thought blearily, and left the brooch on the table to stumble over to his bed and fall into it.

  Chapter 6

  The noon bell woke Mags, although the morning bell had not. It was already quite warm, despite having the windows open; a little longer and it definitely would be too warm to sleep in here. Now he was glad he had made the choice that he had, to sleep through the morning and get up at noon.

  He threw on yesterday’s uniform, since it would have to go down the clothing chute anyway, carried a clean set of Grays up to the Collegium, and had a good bath before going down to what remained of the noon meal. Things were pretty picked over, but he was quite able to put together a solid selection—and just as he was settling in at a newly cleared table to enjoy it, Bear came rushing in.

  Bear looked even more untidy than usual, though the effect was mostly due to his hair standing practically straight up, as it did when he’d been nervously running his hands through it. And he looked distracted—so very distracted that he didn’t even notice Mags was sitting there until Mags gave an unceremonious whistle. Bear’s head swiveled as if it had been pulled by a string, and his face lit up.

  Uncharacteristically, he bounced over to where Mags was sitting, with his round face so full of repressed emotion Mags worried that he was about to burst.

  “Easy on, there, m’lad,” Mags said, soothingly. “Siddown. Ye look like a runaway cart. What’s got ye so riled up, eh?”

  “Amily,” Bear said succinctly, dropping down onto the seat next to Mags and helping himself to some of the veggies.

  “Oh-ho!” Mags exclaimed with complete understanding now.

  It had been determined that Amily’s crippled leg, if rebroken, could probably be Healed again—not perfectly, but she would end up with a leg she could actually use, instead of one that was a twisted burden to her. Bear was the first one that had suggested this, based on the fact that he had rebroken and set farm animal’s legs so that farmers didn’t have to put them down. It probably could not have been done anywhere but here—but here at the Collegia, Healer’s Collegium in particular, were some of the best and brightest in the Kingdom. And Amily was the daughter of the King’s Own.

  “So, they’re gonna do it, an’ they gi’ ye a seat at front?” Mags hazarded.

  Bear practically exploded. “They told me I’m the one to oversee it all, cause it’s my idea! Well, not exactly oversee, but the one to figure out what’s needed, get everyone together and agreed, and then be the one to keep everything running smoothly until she’s all fixed and walking!”

  Mags blinked. On the one hand—

  “Uh, tha’s good—” he said, feeling decidedly mixed about this. “But yer jest a Trainee—”

  Bear didn’t seem at all upset that Mags was dubious. Instead, he nodded vigorously. “Exactly, and I’ll have the Dean checking over everything, and lots of people making sure that I don’t make some stupid mistake. But I have done this before, and no one else has. And they tell me that when Amily is all healed, not even my father will be able to say I’m not a real Healer.”

  Now that he looked closer, Mags could tell something else. Under the excitement, Bear was scared. As well he should be, in Mags’ opinion. This was going to be dangerous work—dangerous for Amily, that is.

  Ah, but Mags already knew just how badly Amily wanted this. And who was he to stand in her way?

  He wanted to help Amily more than anything in the whole world. He wasn’t a Healer, and he knew nothing about Healing. So the only way he could help Amily in this was to help the Healers. To help Bear.

  “Aight,” he said, slowly. “So, this’s kinda like plannin’ a Kirball game. Aye? So. Fust thing i’ th’ game’s gonna be getting’ th’ leg broke agin. But tha’s like sayin’ fust thing i’ a real game’s gonna be meetin’ th’ other team on field, an’ we know thet ain’t how’t goes. Aye? So... fust thing... fust thing i’ Kirball game’s knowin’ th’ lay of the ground.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at Bear, who was listening to him intently. Bear’s eyes flashed.

  “Yes! That’s it exactly! So the first thing is going to be to get some kind of... of map of where all the old breaks are, and how strong the mends are! Yes! And then get everyone familiar with it, even the ones that don’t have the Gift to see it—”

  “Sounds t’me like ye’ll be needin’ some’un who kin draw?” Ma
gs hazarded.

  “Yes! No . . .” Bear began running his hands through his hair again

  “No, whoever draws this has to be able to See what things look like and—”

  “No ’e don’,” Mags said patiently. “When we gets some’un in what got robbed an’ ’e knows th’ face uv th’ feller what robbed ’im, we jest git Herald Rashi. She kin draw, an’ she got Mindspeech, th’ kind what sees pichers. She looks at picher i’ feller what was robbed’s head, an’ draws it. So ye gets Rashi, an’ she makes yer picher.”

  “Or better yet! She makes a model!” Bear exclaimed, face alight again. “We can get cattle bones the right size and shape, we can break them and cement them together—”

  “Saw ’em,” Mags advised. “Break ’on’t be th’ same as Amily, ’less ye saws ’em exact.”

  “Right, but we can put them together exactly the same as Amily’s leg and—and we can make muscles out of stuffed cloth or something—and—” He was running his hands frantically through his hair now, but in a frenzy of ideas rather than frantic worry.