“Oh, bother,” the Dean said, torn between exasperation and amusement. “You would say something like that. I’m a Bard, young man, we’re all about words, not deeds.”
He dared to raise an eyebrow at her.
She raised one right back at him, trading him look for look.
“I can keep this up all day, you know,” she said conversationally. “I am the past mistress of the admonishing brow. You cannot hope to beat me. Besides, I agree with you. But I am not going to coax and cosset her. That was all very well when she first came here and was terrified, lonely, and shy. She’s older now, and I am not going to allow her to fall into the trap of being weak and bleating like a little lost lamb because she wants attention. It’s not attractive, it’s not appropriate, and it’s not Bardic.”
“Yes’m,” he said obediently, resuming his normal expression.
“Unnatural child,” she complained. “You have the looks of someone barely old enough to be admitted and the mind of an old man. A conniving, calculating, scheming, plotting old man.”
“Yes’m,” he admitted. “Schemin’ kept me breathin’ i’ the’ mine.”
She made a wry face. “I imagine it did. All right, I’ll tuck your second demand in the back of my poor overworked, enfeebled brain and let it simmer. Perchance the Goddess or the Angel of Music will take pity on me and stick an answer in there for me, before my mind melts of the heat. And I’ll summon a Lena-extractor now—no, wait. I’ll get her myself. I haven’t been out of this chair in candlemarks. You wait here.”
Suiting actions to words, the Dean got up and left him standing there, basket handle in his hands. The Dean’s office was on the same floor and corridor as the rooms for the female Bardic Trainees—for reasons that would have been obvious to anyone with the least knowledge of restless young men and women, all of them very far away from the parental eye. In no time at all, she was back, with Lena in tow.
He was relieved to see that Lena didn’t look too bad. She’d been getting some sleep, since her eyes weren’t red or dark-circled. She did have that slightly distracted air she usually had when she’d been working too hard, though.
“There, now. You see? Even the wretched Cook is worried enough about you missing meals he sent one of your friends over with a basket. You should be ashamed of yourself, Lena,” the Dean scolded, gesturing at Mags as they came in. “What is the very first thing we tell you youngsters when you get here? Hmm?”
“Your body is your instrument,” she said without thinking.
“And what would I do if you neglected your instrument, let it get shamefully out of tune, didn’t keep the wood oiled and polished, allowed the strings to break?” the Dean asked sharply, with a fearsome frown on her face.
Mags stilled his feelings of alarm. The Dean was acting as she had said she would, and he couldn’t fault her. She had been teaching Bardic Students for a very long time indeed. He had to believe she knew how to handle someone like Lena.
He waited for Dallen to say something, but Dallen remained silent. So... he hazarded that this meant Dallen agreed with the Bard.
“Take it away from me until I deserved it again,” Lena whispered, her head hanging.
“Well, I can’t exactly take your body, can I?” The Dean sniffed. “But I can take you out of that room and tell you that if you don’t stop driving yourself into the ground, I am going to suspend you from all classes and assign you to the stables for a moon. No music. Plain ordinary labor. Nothing that would harm your hands, of course, but other than that, subject to the orders of the Stablemaster.”
Lena looked up sharply, her mouth agape with shock. “You’d—what?” A faint flush of outrage passed over her pretty face. Mags felt encouraged to see it. The Bard might be right. It might be that what Lena needed to make her stronger was a bit of opposition, not support.
The Dean crossed her arms over her chest. “I am responsible for you, for your health, for your well-being. If you refuse to take care of yourself, I will give you no choice in the matter. A month of good healthy work carrying water and feed and shoveling manure should undo all the nasty things you’ve been doing to yourself. When you see your meals, you’ll devour them because work made you hungry. And you’ll be so tired at the end of the day that you’ll fall asleep whether you want to or not. It’s not as if you have anything to fear in your studies; you’re so far ahead now that you’ll probably get your Scarlets a year early, if not sooner than that.” The Dean shifted her weight to one foot and raised an eyebrow so eloquently that Mags was ashamed of his own effort earlier. “So. What is it going to be? Start acting like a perfectly normal girl, study and create, yes, but also eat and play and sleep? Or am I going to have to put you to stable duty?”
Lena stared at her, eyes wide and shocked, and finally remembered to close her mouth. But what had startled her was not the parts about stable duty. “Get—get my Scarlets—a year early?” she stammered.
The Dean threw up her hands. “What, am I speaking Karsite now? Didn’t I just say that? Haven’t your teachers been implying as much? Yes. Or sooner than that. You don’t have to worry about falling behind. You’re making the rest feel rather badly, actually, which is scarcely fair. That poor little brat Marchand brought in is terrified of living up to your standard. He’s sure that if he dares say a word to you, you’ll somehow magically and instantly see him for a fraud and have him thrown out.”
“I—what?” Lena’s jaw dropped again.
“I must be speaking Karsite,” the Dean muttered, loudly enough that both of them could hear her quite clearly. “No one understands a word I say today. Lena, there is only one thing in which you are not so very far ahead of your yearmates that they would resent you if you were not a pleasant and friendly person. You need to work on performing in front of large audiences alone. And to be absolutely honest, I’ve put people into Scarlets that never mastered that. There are plenty of Bards out there who won’t play for more than a dozen people at a time.”
“There are?” Lena said, dazed.
“There are—however, do not take that as permission to slack. I want to see you trying, and trying hard, to overcome your stage fright. And since you are so far ahead, believe me, much more will be required of you than your yearmates. But for now, I want to see you learning how to be a person. You can’t create if you don’t have experience.” She none-too-gently turned both Mags and Lena around and shoved them at the door. “You. Two,” she said, enunciating with exquisite precision. “Out. Eat. Play. Do not come back before your next class. Or I shall visit great wrath upon you.”
Lena still seemed stunned, so Mags grabbed her elbow and towed her out of the office.
From there it was a short trip down the stairs and out the door. The coolest place he could think of to have their impromptu picnic was a kind of cave-grotto down by the river. Most of the time it was entirely too damp to be pleasant, but he was pretty certain it would be nice today. And he didn’t particularly care if someone else was there, either.
Which was just as well, because there was: a couple of young highborn fellows from the Palace, one in brown linen with all the edges piped in red, and one in a dull green of much better quality than the first. They were engaged in a spirited game of hares-and-hounds, laid out on one of the little stone tables this place held. They looked up when the two Trainees came in, waved in a lazy fashion, pointed at the other side of the grotto, and went back to their game.
The cool in here was a fabulous relief from the heat outside. There was just a bit of a damp smell, but with an overtone of green that made Mags think it came up from the river. Moss thickly carpeted the floor, the artifical “cave wall” of the grotto was cold to the touch, as were the stone benches on either side of the three little stone tables. Mags set the basket down and took a seat as Lena did the same.
By this point Lena was mostly over her shock. She won’t b’lieve it, a-course, not e’en when ’twas th’ Dean hersel’ what tol’ ’er she was thet good. Not once she
starts t’thinkin’ bout it. Which would be where Bear would come in. Once Bear started showing her what the Dean had just told her, Lena just might, slowly, start to accept that it was nothing about her that made her father treat her like something he’d scraped off his boot. No, it was all about Bard Marchand and what Bard Marchand wanted.
I gotta figger out whut ’e’s getting from thet boy . . .
Mags unpacked the basket. There was a lot of food. More than two people could eat, and only one of them was going to actually be eating. There was so much that it caught the attention of the two fellows at the portable game board. They looked, and looked away, looked, and looked away, and finally one of them caught Lena’s eye.
“I suppose you’re going to eat all that?” that one finally said, wistfully. “Erm... we got up too late for luncheon, and the Palace Cook told us to ‘take your lazy carcasses out of my kitchen, dammit.’ ”
Mags was amused at that. They could, of course, go down into Haven and have whatever they wanted at any inn in the city. Or they could go visit the stately manor of some friend, who would have father, mother, or housekeeper order them up something. Clearly, however, they were disinclined to move very far in this heat.
Prolly figgered on waitin’ till Cook fergot ’bout ’em, then gettin’ a page t’fetch summat fer ’em.
That startled Lena into speech. “Oh, no!” she laughed breathlessly. “Please, come help yourselves.”
With glee, they did, coming over, and when Mags assured them that it was all right, that he had already eaten, taking everything that the two Trainees pressed on them. They were very polite about it and thanked them both profusely before returning to their game with their booty.
“Lissen,” Mags said, when the young men were immersed in the game again, munching on the food in one hand while they moved counters with the other. “I didn’ come over t’ git ye in trouble wi’ yon Dean. I come over t’git yer help wi’ Bear.”
Immediately her brows knitted with concern, her own woes set aside for the moment. “Is it the whole business of fixing Amily’s leg?” she asked, and then answered herself before he could say anything. “Of course it is. He has to be worried sick about it. He’s in charge, which is an awfully big trust and an awfully big responsibility. It’s bad enough that it’s a fearfully dangerous thing to do, but Amily is our friend. That just makes it all worse.”
Mags nodded. “Now look. Reckon them what’s in charge got a pretty good hold’uv this. I think, akchully, thet th’ reason they put Bear i’ charge ’ere, is on account ’f a coupla thin’s. They wanta gi’ ’im th’ chance t’ show ’is pa ’e’s got th’ stuff. They wanta put ’im inna place where ’e ak’chully sees fer ’isself thet ’e’s got th’ stuff. Aye? Gi’ ’im whatchacall—self-confidence. I don’ think they knowed ’ow much ’e’s like t’fret hisself t’pieces on account’a ’e cain’t think’v answers. Eh? Then ’e cain’t think’v answers on account’a ’e’s frettin’ hisself t’pieces. Jest goes roun’ an’ roun’. I kin ’ep ’im some, an hev, but the frettin’ part, I cain’t do nothin’ ’bout thet. So. Thet’s where ye come in.”
She nodded, slowly. “I can see that. I need to make sure he eats, because—” her eyes flickered to the strangers for a blink. “—he’ll take it better from me than from you.”
Good girl, Lena! “Aye. ’E’ll say I’m bein’ a nanny an’ ’e’ don’ need one.” He grinned at her. “ ’E’s said as much already.”
“And I need to make sure he sees some sun and thinks about something other than Amily.” She smiled. “And, of course, when he starts complaining about his family, I listen and let him run on and then tell him that they are idiots and don’t deserve him. Which they are, and they don’t. so it won’t even be a little lie.”
“Teach him hare-and-hounds,” said one of the young men at the game board, unexpectedly, turning and looking at Lena. “Or if he already knows it, play it with him. I know they teach you Bards the game straight off—I’ve lost plenty of pocket money to you Trainees. It’s a good excuse to come down here in the cool. If we’re here, we can even trade off partners. If you don’t mind that, that is?” He looked up and flushed a little, as if realizing he had been just a bit rude for eavesdropping, and even more for butting in on the conversation.
But Lena beamed at him. “That would be a lovely idea—Lord—?”
“Charliss,” said the speaker, with a foolish grin. He was a very affable looking fellow, with blond hair that flopped a bit into his deepset blue eyes and a generous mouth that looked as if he smiled a lot.
“Moron,” said his friend, who was a thinner, slightly harder version of the first young man, aiming a cuff at him. “Lord Pig With No Manners.” Now he turned toward the two of them. “And after you were so nice as to feed us too. I’m Grig. No Lordishness attached. I’m the poor-and-pitied cleverer cousin, assigned to make sure Char keeps from putting his foot in his mouth too often.” He sighed and shook his head. “As you can see, it is a never-ending and utterly thankless task. And yet, I endure.”
“Grig, Lord Charliss.” Lena somehow managed to give an impression of a curtsy while still sitting. “I’m Trainee Lena, this is Trainee Mags.”
The two young men started, their eyes popping, taking Mags completely aback. “The Trainee Mags?” gasped Charliss. “The Kirball player? For South team? The one with the Companion that runs like a cat with twelve paws?”
::A cat with... twelve paws? That’s an ungainly image,:: Dallen snorted.
“Erm—aye?” he said.
The two young men exchanged a gleeful glance. “Benter is never going to believe us,” said Grig, grinning as if he was never going to stop.
“Oh, he’ll believe us. He’ll just never forgive us,” replied Charliss, with the air of someone who had just taken all his opposing player’s hounds in one go. “So, Trainee Mags... just what strategy would you recommend to get on a Kirball team?”
So thet’s where th’ wind blows! “We-ell,” he said, with a glance at Lena to make sure it was all right with her to start this particular conversation—because, after all, he had come here with her, not them. “T’start with... ye gotter git th’ right horses . . .”
Chapter 8
::When I proposed this business, I thought you would be sitting here in the shop with me, not climbing about rooftops all night,:: Nikolas said, ruefully. ::Mostly, I thought you would be watching me work these people, and watching out for my back. And you have done that. But I never imagined I’d be putting you out there on your own.:: He was not happy with this, but... and this had given Mags such a thrill that he almost forgot how dangerous this was going to be... he had not argued at all.
::Somebody gots t’be i’ shop, buyin’ what-all,:: Mags replied briefly, with a glance down at Nikolas’ worried face, as he pushed open the hatch in the ceiling. ::Somebody gots ter foller th’ lads as sells ye th’ words. Nobody’d b’lieve ye’d leave me i’ charge’v shop, even if’n I weren’t s’posed t’be deaf, so reckon I gotter foller.::
Nikolas was going to start second-guessing himself in a moment, if Mags didn’t say something to lighten the mood. He climbed up into the attic space and dropped the hatch back in place. ::Asides, yer too big t’climb ’bout like yon roof-rat.:: The “word” he used was “big,” but the mental shading that came with it was unmistakably “fat.”
::Oy!:: Nikolas replied, with mock outrage. ::I’m not that big!::
::An’ yer jest not limber ’nough, either. Reckon yer bones git creaky. Cain’t hev ye breakin’ yon tiles an’ fallin’ through some’un’s ceiling,:: Mags continued, mockingly. ::That’d land ye in gaol fer certain-sure, they’d figger ye fer a thief. An’ then whut?::
::And would you dare take me and Rolan in a challenge race, you unwashed brat?:: came the “growled” reply.
::Nossir,:: he said promptly. ::Wouldn’ dare, sir.::
::Because you know we’d beat you like a hand-drum,:: Nikolas told him.
::Nossir. Cannot l
ie, sir. ’Tis cause yer not on’y big, yer me elder. Wouldn’ be fittin’, t’ challenge a gran’ther, sir.::
Not only “fat,” but “old.”
He suppressed his giggles at Nikolas’ reaction of outrage. He wasn’t just goading Nikolas for the sake of it. The King’s Own was seriously worried about him, and if he had to do his part of this evening’s work with an undivided mind, he had to shake off his concern for Mags. It was true, he did have a dangerous job. He was going to lie in wait above the door until a couple of men who said they had information to sell about the foreign spies arrived, sold their information, and left. Then Mags was going to follow them. It wasn’t the full moon now, it was the dark of the moon. And he wasn’t merely making his way across the rooftops to get from one place to another, he was going to have to follow someone, which meant keep up with people walking on the flat, open street, and it wasn’t going to be people as oblivious as Selna.
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