“But—” she began.
He shook his head. “Don’ e’en bother tryin’ ter figger Marchand out, ’cause it don’ matter what ’is motive is. Point is, we make ’im useful ter us, an’ nothin’ else hasta matter. Jest keep yer head on thet. ’cause otherwise, ’e’s gonna get t’yer, yer gonna want ’im t’ be a real pa t’ye, an’ yer back where ye was.”
“But—” Her eyebrows creased. “What if he really is trying to do right?” She thought a moment. “Well, this concert thing does look rather bad. There’s no reason why he would want you and Amily there except to increase his own prestige. But maybe someone is going to be there that he thinks you or Amily should meet!”
“I dunno iffen ’e’s finally doin’ right. You dunno. Likely ’e don’ even know.” Mags shrugged. “We got ter wait for it t’play out. Till then, we jest make sure we use ’im, cause damn sure iffen ’e ain’t walkin’ th’ straight path, ’e’s tryin’ t’use us. An’ iffen anythin’, ’e owes us fer bein’ sech a piss-poor father. Fair?”
She sighed. “Fair.”
He held up a cautionary hand. “Now, I ain’t said yes yet. This’s fer two, and I gotta go talk t’Ami—” He stopped, looking at the faintly guilty expression she wore. “Ye already did, didn’ ye?”
She sucked on her lower lip and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
He didn’t know whether to be cross or amused. But amused was a lot less trouble than cross. “Wimmin,” he sighed. “I dunno why I’m a-tellin’ ye ’bout tuggin’ yer pa ’round, an’ makin’ ’im inter yer game-piece, when wimmin do thet natural as breathin’.”
She gave him an affronted look. “No we don’t!”
“I ain’t a-gonna argue. ’Tis too bleedin’ hot t’argue. All right, ye kin tell yer pa we’re gonna go get trotted ’round like a couple’a breed-horses at ’is stupid party. When is’t?”
“Three days from now,” she said, and kissed his cheek before she stood up. “Thank you, Mags.”
“Don’ thenk me,” he replied, turning his attention back to the chronicle he’d been picking through. “I’m figgerin’ t’get plenny outa this. Le’s jest ’ope th’ ’eat breaks afore then, or there’ll be folks pickin’ fights there too.”
Chapter 18
Bad enough that the heat hadn’t broken, but Mags was going to have a to really push it to keep from looking like some sort of rude boor by turning up late for the wretched thing that Marchand had arranged.
He’d said yes assuming it was one of those evening concerts Marchand liked to stage. Which would have been just fine, no trouble at all. But it wasn’t. It started with a party in the garden—a garden that was supposed to be something special even by highborn standards, with all sorts of cooling fountains and water features. Then dinner would be served at dusk, the fountains would be hushed, lanterns would be floated on the still surface of the water features, and Marchand would perform.
One small problem. Or not so small, since Mags didn’t want to look as if he didn’t care when the event was taking place. Classes were going to go practically right up to the time Marchand’s “little gathering” was supposed to start; Mags was going to have just enough time to change into his good set of Grays before throwing himself on Dallen and literally galloping down to the event. Of course Marchand had not bothered to see what Mags’ schedule was before setting the time of the gathering . . .
If he’d been taking Amily pillion on Dallen as he always had before, this would have been impossible. But Amily had told him that she didn’t mind going ahead of him, especially since Marchand was supplying her with a carriage and a burly footman to get her into and out of it.
So all he needed to worry about was getting himself down there. And it turned out there actually was a legitimate connection with him, and an equally legitimate reason why Marchand might be doing him, and the highborn, mutual favors. This was the home of one of Marchand’s highborn patrons, an avid—one might almost say fanatic—follower of Kirball. Fanatic enough that he was supplying horses to the Riders in the interest of having the best possible games to watch.
Now, supplying horses to one team was one thing; Lord Wess’s father was doing it for Mag’s team because his son was on it. But supplying horses to all four? That argued for someone who really was interested in the game as a pure game,and wanted to make sure that one team didn’t win over another because of superior “equipment.” Mags was very interested to meet this man and talk to him.
It would be a fantastic change from talking, and thinking, about potential killers.
Mags sprinted through the furnace-heat from his last class to the stables. It felt as if he were wearing his Kirball armor, the heat weighed him down so much. It also felt as if he were running in a dream, the sort where you are running as fast as you can and getting nowhere at all.
Dallen was already saddled and waiting; the grooms had done as they promised. Mags dashed past his Companion into his room. He’d laid his good Grays out this morning. By his own mental reckoning, he was right on time. He shed his trews and tunic, washed himself down with tepid water from the basin on the stand, and pulled on the trews. Yes. He was going to be right on time.
Right on time—until he heard an ominous rumble in the distance.
He was only half-clothed, but he stuck his head out the window anyway—to see storm clouds the color of crows’ wings boiling up out of the West. And the next moment, a blast of cold, damp air gushed across the stableyard, dropping the temperature from “oven” to “wine cellar” in next to no time.
Even as he watched, feeling a bit stunned, an enormous lightning bolt slammed into the ground in the distance, and thunder rolled and rumbled and shook the building.
Oh... hell.
::We are not going to beat that, not even if we left this moment,:: Dallen observed.
::Beat it? We’d be bare lucky not t’drown.::
The clouds raced toward them as he pulled his head in and the shutters closed, then finished dressing, taking his time, making sure that every tie was tied and every hem was neat, while more thunder shook the stable and grew louder as the storm grew nearer. Because there was absolutely no point in rushing now.
I’m a-gonna look like I don’ care other folks gotta wait fer me. Or wuss, like I was a-waitin till ev’body was there so’s I could make some kinda grand entrance. Dammit.
Then again... the gathering was supposed to be in the garden. Outside. And everyone at that party, if they had not noticed the clouds boiling up, had certainly heard the thunder and felt that blast of cold air. Right now people in expensive clothing that they did not want ruined would be making a headlong dash for shelter. Things would be utterly confused for a good long time... probably wouldn’t be sorted out until he got there. With luck, he might even be able to slip in without a fuss.
Wind rattled the shutters and the first gush of rain hit them as he dug out his voluminous raincape and wrapped it around himself. It had flaps that he could tie around his legs to keep them more-or-less dry, and he did so. The oiled canvas was stiff, but he wasn’t going to have to perform any acrobatic maneuvers in it, just get himself up into Dallen’s saddle.
Dallen laid his ears back when he saw Mags. ::I wish there were one of those for me.::
::Oh, hush. Do that thing ye did when ye shed alla thet dirt.::
::You weren’t supposed to notice that.:: One of the grooms pulled a door open. Rain poured in, and Dallen, still with his ears flat, cantered out into it.
::Aye, well, there’s a lotta thet goin’ ’round.::
It was like standing under a waterfall. Or—well, Mags had never actually done that, so it was what he imagined standing under a waterfall would be like. He was glad that the cape had a hood and he had tied said hood up, because otherwise the rain would have just poured in through the neckhole of this thing. Lightning lashed overhead, and the thunder was almost continuous. He couldn’t hear anything.
::Mebbe I should git ye a cane t’feel yer way.::
::Just remind me how much better this is than the oven we had this morning,:: Dallen replied, keeping up the pace.
::Oh... gods. This is so much better nor th’ oven we ’ad this morn,:: he replied, with deep feeling. Cold. He was actually cold. It was glorious. And his headache had completely vanished with the first chill blast of wind.
They passed the gate and the Gate Guards, who huddled in their own raincapes, with warm light showing at the open door. They waved at Mags, grinning. They must have felt the same—maybe more so. Guard uniforms were dark blue, not the best color in the heat, and they hadn’t been given leave to wear as little as they could.
Mags kept his head down to avoid being blinded by a sudden flash of lightning. ::Is there any odds we’ll git hit?:: he asked a little nervously.
::I’ll see that we don’t,:: Dallen replied.
::You’ll—:: Mags was at a loss for words for a moment. ::Is thet somethin’ all on ye kin do?::
::Aye. Why do you think, with all the terrible storms they ride through, Heralds never get struck by lightning?:: Dallen seemed amused; his ears were up again. ::However, I am not moving out of a walk. The streets are too uncertain.::
A walk seemed more than fast enough to Mags. The rain was coming down so fast that it wasn’t able to flow into the drainage ditches on either side of the road, and Dallen was splashing through an ankle-deep, swiftly moving stream where the road had been. ::This’s crazy. Ain’t never seen rain come down like this.::
::Once in a very great while. Rather like the blizzard we got the year you arrived.:: He felt Dallen’s amusement. ::Did you bring extreme weather with you?::
::Not thet I know of . . .:: He peered gingerly under the rim of his hood, but he couldn’t make out where they were. ::’Ow far are we, anyroad?::
::At this rate? About four times as long as it would have taken in good weather.::
::Bah.:: He wished he had a way to contact their host and apologize. Which was a little silly, since their host was, without a doubt, very much aware of how bad the storm was and would surely not be annoyed at Mags for being delayed.
::He’s more likely to thank you for coming at all,:: Dallen pointed out.
Still. He wondered if he could somehow tell Amily what was going on. After all, he was able to make those who could not Mindspeak hear him on the Kirball team—he should be able to make her hear him.
Well, if he could contact her at all. The members of his Kirball team were always nearby and were aware that he was going to do this. They practiced it long before they did it on the field, and Mags was very familiar with how their minds “felt.” He’d deliberately avoided Amily’s mind, shielding himself tightly around her, so he wouldn’t pick up any of her thoughts even by accident. This was not just because that was the ethical way to do things, but because he would have felt very uneasy invading her privacy like that, even if it was inadvertent. He hadn’t even warned her by Mindspeech when they’d been attacked—though he hadn’t needed to, since it was pretty obvious.
But if he could contact her at a distance at all, this was certainly the time to do so.
All right. Lessee if I kin . . .
He closed his eyes and let his shields down, just enough to send out a tentative thread of thought, looking for her—or rather, for something that “felt” like her. She couldn’t be too far away now... he and Dallen were forced to stay on the road, but thought could go in a straight line.
Lots of thoughts, most of them along the lines of Oh, my dear gods, we are all going to wash down the side of the Hill! None of them at all familiar. He quested a little farther.
Finally he thought he sensed someone familiar. ::Amily?:: he sent, tentatively.
::MAGS!::
It was a mind-scream, full of fear and panic. ::Mags! Mags! Help me! Hel—::
He felt the blow to her head that knocked her unconscious as if he were the one who had been hit.
Dallen felt it too, and without prompting lurched into a frantic, splashing gallop, heading for their host’s manor, utterly heedless of his own safety.
Mags pulled the hood off his head and peered through the rain, knowing that with two foreward-facing eyes his vision was better right now than Dallen’s was. His heart raced, and he was afire with anger and fear, but somehow cold with it too. It had to be Ice and Stone; who else would have taken her? He had been wrong, everyone had been wrong. They had been clever enough to realize that now was the time to try to snatch her, precisely because everyone would think they would retreat and regroup after their failure—
As Dallen charged through the rain, he thought he saw something ahead of them—
::There!:: he shouted. A carriage! A carriage pulled by two horses that were galloping at breakneck speed.
Dallen didn’t bother to reply, he just stretched his neck out and redoubled his efforts. And Mags locked his grip on the saddle horn, closed his eyes, and projected what had just happened to every Herald he could reach, straining until a bolt of pain lanced across his head and interrupted him. Now they knew.
Not that any of them would be able to get here . . .
He opened his eyes and saw that Dallen was gaining on the carriage. He couldn’t make out who it was that was lashing the horses so savagely, and he couldn’t sense anything human from it. Which could only mean those strange shields had locked down tight, and Ice and Stone were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.
Lightning hammered down and hit something just ahead and to the right of the carriage. The horses shied sideways, sending the carriage careening on two wheels before it dropped back down again. The figure on the driver’s box looked back; he must have spotted them, because he sawed at the reins, and the horses—now in a blind panic—plunged to the other side of the road and skidded around a corner Mag hadn’t even seen.
He and Dallen overshot; Dallen executed a muscle-pulling reverse and resumed the chase.
Another lightning bolt hammered down, and the horses shied. This time the carriage skidded back and forth wildly, and Dallen had to drop back a little.
Mags braced himself in the saddle. He could see in Dallen’s mind what he wanted to do: come alongside so that Mags could jump into the open carriage. They could do it if Dallen could get close enough. Then Dallen, without Mags’ weight on him, could surge ahead and shoulder the horses off the road while Mags protected Amily, who must be lying on the floor of the carriage.
The driver looked back again, saw them still on his tail, and viciously heeled the horses over again. The carriage slewed from side to side, and again, Dallen had to drop back.
But the horses weren’t going to be able to keep this up for very long. They didn’t have the stamina that Dallen did. Not even the fact that they were going downhill was going to help.
Every hair on his body suddenly rose up, and he smelled something sharp and—
Dallen swerved violently sideways, and another bolt of lightning struck where they had been. The heat of it scorched his cheek, it was so close, and it seemed to suck all the breath out of his body and blind him, all at once—and the thunder nearly flattened him into the saddle.
For a moment, he fought for air, mind utterly blank.
When his mind came back, the carriage was lengths ahead of them, and Dallen was standing like a horse made of stone, and both of them were steaming. His whole body tingled painfully, his skin felt burned, and for a moment he had trouble thinking of what they were supposed to be doing.
Suddenly Dallen shook himself all over, and lurched into a gallop again. Mags tried to make his mind work, but it was moving slowly, thoughts blundering around like blind beetles. Dallen closed the distance between themselves and the carriage, and Mags finally felt his mind staggering back to normal. The driver wasn’t looking back. Did he think they’d been struck?
Had he somehow been the one that caused the strike?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the carriage and making the jump.
Dallen closed the gap.
His nose was practically at the rear wheel. Now his head was alongside the rear wheel. Mags tensed and raised up in the stirrups. This would take incredible timing. Rain torrented down, making it even harder. He would have to land right in the carriage, because in this rain, the chance of catching the side and saving himself was—not good.
A little more... just a little . . .
Neither he nor Dallen saw the object that hurtled out of the carriage into them—but they both felt it. It was big and solid enough to slam into Dallen’s neck and flank with terrible force, and neither of them were ready for it.
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