Nikolas pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “All right. I still don’t like it. As the King’s Own, I am still slightly offended that the person I am teaching and responsible for did not come to me with this information. However, you are correct in that at this point in time, the information really was of no importance to anyone except Bear and Lena, and there were no possible ramifications.”
Mags let out the breath he had been holding in.
But Nikolas wasn’t finished. “Nevertheless. Mags—and Dallen—you both forget that I am privy to absolutely everything regarding this Kingdom, and it was entirely likely that I would know something that would reveal that yes, there were possible ramifications. I do not wish to have to repeat this lecture again. Ever.”
“Yessir,” Mags said immediately.
:Hmph.: That was all Dallen said. Mags very much feared that his Companion was not impressed.
“Now, of everything that came in tonight, what was the thing that didn’t fit?” Nikolas asked.
Mags shook his head, and Nikolas held out his hand. In it were three rectangular pieces of finely finished metal. They looked bronze; they also looked as if they should have been pendants, except there were no holes in them for stringing on a necklace.
All three were of the same design: flowers, or what appeared to be flowers, on one side, and some sort of cursive pattern on the other.
Mags cocked his head to the side. “They ain’t all that valuable.”
“Not in and of themselves, no.” Nikolas turned them over in his hand with a finger. “The thing is, they aren’t anything I have ever seen before. I think this is writing, but it’s no language either I or Rolan is familiar with. It’s not the same language as the one book our mysterious assassins left behind is written in. So I am sorely puzzled. Are they coins? I’ve never seen a rectangular coin, it’s possible. Are they talismans? There don’t appear to be any images of gods. Are they gaming pieces? If so, whoever owned them must be very wealthy, and you would think that a wealthy person who has lost some pieces to his game would be going to jewelers to have them replaced so he can continue to play—and believe me, if that had happened, I would have been told about it. The jewelers in Haven know very well to come to one of the Guard or a Guard agent, or a Constable if something turns up that they just don’t recognize.”
Mags nodded. He’d actually relayed a few of those messages, which had all but one turned out to be false alarms—some bits and pieces from the Shin’a’in and from Rethwellan. The one that had not been a false alarm had sorely puzzled them all until someone found a half-obliterated hallmark on it, and had realized the piece was a botched attempt at melting down a more intricate object, and what had been a delicate tracery of leaves and vines had ended up looking like an unknown script.
But these pieces were clean, not shiny, but still, with no wear and very little patina on them. Even though Mags could not have told what sort of flowers were on the front—if it was the front—he had no doubt that they would be perfectly recognizable to someone who knew their type.
Nikolas closed his hand on them. “They’ll go to the Guard Archivist. If there’s a record of anything like this, he’ll have it.” He put the pieces in a secure pocket of his belt pouch. “I’d like you to run the rest of this over to the Constables,” he continued, handing over a heavy, if tidy little bundle. “Get back here as soon as you can. The lull won’t last forever, just until the most cautious of our clients decide that it is late enough they can take the chance on catching the Weasel before he goes home for the night.”
Mags took the bundle and secured it inside his tunic, in a pocket he’d sewn there himself, with heavy, double-stitched seams. Then he pulled down the ladder that accessed the attic and the roof and scrambled up it, pulling it up after himself once he reached the top.
Obviously, he was not going to travel on the open streets with this much silver on him. And equally obviously, he had no intention of allowing anyone to see that the Weasel’s nephew was visiting the Constables.
As he came out on the roof and sniffed, he thought he caught a hint of ripening hay in the air. It was possible; there were hayfields just outside of Haven’s walls. Well if the last hay harvest had begun, then the grain harvests would not be far behind, and that meant autumn was definitely on the way.
:Ah, Kirball matches without fainting from the heat. I favor that.:
Mags grinned as he paced across the roof tiles and poised at the edge, then made the leap to the next roof to land as softly as a cat. :I’m with ye there, but I’m not lookin’ forward t’ roof-runnin’ in the cold.:
:Then let’s hope you don’t have to,: came the entirely practical answer.
The good thing about this part of Haven was that the houses were crowded so closely together that even when crossing streets he still didn’t have to descend to the ground. And he knew his way to the Constable’s station so well that he could easily have made the run half asleep. It took him a quarter candlemark, and it wouldn’t have taken him that long if he hadn’t had to wait a few moments for a patrol of Constables to pass. They wouldn’t know who the shadow flitting over the rooftops was, and they would raise the alarm. Then he would have to lose them. They’d probably recognize him if they caught him, but then they would have to go through the charade of taking him in, and . . . well it could turn into an all-night debacle before he got turned loose, and he was really hoping to be back in bed a bit after midnight.
Better not to be seen.
He got to the Constabulary roof, found his special access hatch, and tripped the hidden catch. Once he was down in their attic storage, he could breathe easier.
There was a proper set of stairs down into the readying room, and he came down them just as the patrol he had spotted came in to get rid of their gear and get a little rest before going out again.
“Well, if it ain’t the lad!” exclaimed Constable Baltis, a grin splitting his homely face. “We thought you and the Weasel’d come into a pile of money, packed up and left us!”
The men here did not know that the Weasel and his nephew were King’s Own Nikolas and Trainee Mags—but they did know that the Weasel and his nephew were agents for the Crown.
They also knew the nephew wasn’t mute.
“Brought you lads loot,” Mags said, pulling the bag out of his tunic and hefting it. “The bad lot’s been busy over the wedding. Which one of you wants to take it to the Sergeant?”
“I will,” Baltis volunteered. “Is it tagged?”
“As usual. You know the Weasel is as fussy as an old hen about that,” Mags said, getting a laugh. Nikolas always tagged every piece he turned over to the Constables with the name of the thief that had sold it on the paper it was folded into. The Constables as a whole thought this was overdoing it a bit. They knew who the thieves were, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was catching them in the act, or at least with the goods on them. Once Nikolas had a piece of stolen goods, it was too late. They couldn’t arrest the thief without revealing that Nikolas was an agent.
“Water?” suggested one of the others, holding up a dipperful. “It’s still hot enough out there—”
“Aye, thenkee.” Mags took the dipper from him and drank, filling it twice from the little pottery barrel they all got their drinking water from—thoroughly boiled, for the water from the pumps in this part of town was not safe to drink without boiling first. The barrel was damp on the outside; a little of the water worked its way to the surface and evaporated, keeping the water still in there cool.
Baltis came back with a slip of paper from the Sergeant, which was all Mags needed. “Be careful out there,” he said, giving them a sketchy salute as he turned to go up the stairs.
“You too!” Baltis called after him, as he passed into the attic and felt for the release for the hatch. “Don’t want to pick you up with a broken neck come morning!”
He paused with one hand on the Constabulary chimney and looked up at the stars.
This fall he was supposed to learn how to navigate by them. That was something he never would have dreamed of in the mine. He was on the day shift, and night was time for sleeping—the mine kiddies lived in a perpetual state of hunger and exhaustion, and in winter, you could add “cold” to that. He couldn’t remember more than one or two times he’d even bothered looking up at the sky at night—at least, not when it was clear, as it was tonight. The stars did nothing for you; they wouldn’t feed or warm you, they wouldn’t help you find food, they were just incomprehensible bits of light in uncaring darkness.
Had anyone at the mine paid any attention to the stars? Not that he remembered.
:Does a dog?: Dallen asked, unexpectedly. :You were treated like abused animals, small wonder you hadn’t any energy to spare for thinking past mere survival. Oddly enough, your early life might turn out useful one day. If you are ever in the regrettable position where you must concentrate on mere survival, well, you’ve had practice in it. And you’ve had practice in concentrating all your effort on it.:
Well, now he had to concentrate all his effort on getting safely back to the shop. This was going to be an easier proposition than getting out to the Constabulary, however. He wasn’t going to have to roof-run the entire way, just get over there, to a house actually owned by the Crown and used by Nikolas and his agents for a variety of purposes. Just now it stood empty, but even if someone had been staying there, it would still serve Mags.
The route off the roof of the Constabulary was a bit tricky and involved the longest leap of the night. The good thing was that the roof he was to land on had a nice flat bit that fetched up against a cornice, so he could tumble his landing and end up tucked against a bit of flat wall. After that, it was clear running; from this roof to a taller one with a steep pitch—but it was wood shingles rather than stone slates, and not at all slippery, The challenge was to get across it crabwise, but since he wasn’t actually running, it was only that, a bit of a challenge. The next roof was hardly more than a hop, and the next only a bit farther away than that. The one after that was the roof of the house he wanted, only he didn’t want to get into it tonight. He went to the edge on the darkest side, felt for the drainpipe at the corner, and hung by his hands over the edge until he found the place where it was strongly fastened to the house with his feet. Then he transferred his grip to the pipe and let himself down hand-over-hand until his feet touched the barrel at the bottom. He positioned his feet on either side of the barrel, balanced there for a moment, then jumped off.
He slipped around the corner of the house to the street side and peered about to make sure no one was within sight of him. Then he walked out into the street as if he had been walking along there for some time.
Well, “walked” was relative. No one here acted as if they were walking the street in broad daylight—poor as the neighborhood was, anyone making trouble during the day would probably find himself piled on by everyone in the area. There was strength in numbers, and if you wanted to be able to count on people coming to your rescue, the folks here knew they had better just come to anyone’s rescue. There was a reason why the Constables patrolled constantly at night, and even so, they were well aware that what they mostly did was keep the criminals moving. So what he was really doing was moving at a brisk pace and making it clear he was watching all around him. Between that—which told thieves he was not going to be caught unaware—and his shabby clothing, he didn’t look like a very good target.
He got back to the shop without any incident and presented Nikolas with the receipt. Nikolas pocketed it without a word, then went to the door and took a brief look up and down the street, then grunted audibly as if in disgust.
Mags knew what he was up to. The Weasel was now a man who no longer needed to keep his shop open at all hours if he didn’t care to. If there was anyone lingering out there, trying to make up his mind whether or not to pay a visit, this would signal that he’d better do so quickly, because the Weasel was tired and wanted to go home.
They waited a little while longer in the crowded, narrow shop, but the little bell over the door didn’t so much as vibrate.
“That’s enough for one night,” Nikolas said, finally. “We’ll try again . . . oh, say in two nights.” He left a note to that effect for his two “assistants” in the lockbox in the floor where the shop cash was kept. If anyone turned up with something special, they would pass the word when the Weasel himself would be keeping behind the counter.
“It is too bloody hot to be in that box,” Nikolas said aloud as he locked up. Mags figured he was doing so for the presumed benefit of anyone who might be watching. Then again, he could just have been doing it to stay in character, since the Weasel continued complaining about the heat as the two of them trudged away. Mags didn’t respond to any of it—he was supposed to be deaf as well as mute, after all. But the Weasel was on occasion a man who liked to hear the sound of his own voice, especially when he had something to complain about.
The Weasel was right about the heat, though. It was almost midnight, and breezes didn’t get very far in the tangle of tightly packed buildings in this part of Haven. Paved streets or pounded earth, they all held heat and radiated it back all night. This time of year was about the only time when having your room in a basement or a garret under the eaves was a good thing. If you were up high you at least had a chance of catching a breeze, and if you were in a basement the earth would keep you cooler, even if you did share your space with more than your share of black beetles and rats.
And the rats could be dealt with by keeping a cat, after all.
:Makes me glad I don’t fit into a basement,: Dallen remarked. :I’m surprised with all the heat there aren’t more fights.:
Well, Mags knew the answer to that one. When you were working every waking hour, heat that might make someone with more leisure quarrelsome only debilitated you. :Prolly around the alehouses,: he replied. :Round here, people just wanta get t’sleep.:
And that was hard enough to do up on the breezy hill. He mopped at the back of his neck as he trotted after a complaining Weasel and was glad that he was going to be there shortly. A good wash under the cold water from the pump, and he’d be ready enough for sleep himself. Well, that was one thing that Haven provided for all its citizens anyway, plenty of water for free. There was a pump on every corner, and buckets too, in case of fire. So many buckets, in fact, that not even here did anyone bother to steal them.
:I believe I am going to start having you open the shop alone some nights,: Nikolas said unexpectedly.
:Wait—what?: he asked, dumbfounded. :After Lena and Bear—:
:You made an ethical decision, but it was also a rational one. As Dallen pointed out, for right now, really, the only people that are affected are they themselves. Rational and ethical—that means ‘mature’ to me. Honestly, if it weren’t that you are so far behind most of your peers in all the classes you need to catch up on, I would be considering if I should put you in Whites in a year or so.:
That made him falter in his paces for a moment, and he ran to catch up. Nikolas glanced aside at him, and Mags saw he was laughing silently. :Oh, don’t look so stricken. You’ll be a Kirball hero for some time yet. At least two years, you have that much in academics to catch up on. I only wish you were as good at Court politics as you are at this sort of thing.:
Frankly, Mags was just as glad that he wasn’t.
:Uh,: he ventured, finally, deeming it a good point to change the subject. :How mad is Amily at me?:
:A little less than I and for the same reasons. She’s angrier at Lena and Bear, and then, not much.: Nikolas gave him another look, and in the light from a streetlamp, Mags saw him smiling slightly. :I think everyone will be less angry with them once Bear’s father learns of the marriage and puts in his inevitable appearance. I’ve asked some of my little birds to give me advance warning this time.:
:To warn Bear?: Mags ventured.
Nikolas snorted. :Oh, no. I want to see him handle this himself.
That alone will tell me if he’s made a mature decision.:
:Why, then?:
:I want to gather an audience. I might even be tempted to sell tickets.:
* * *
Even on the Hill it was hot—hot enough that no one could be bothered to put much energy into anything that required physical effort. Even the Weaponsmaster had caved in to the heat and was limiting training to short sessions, sending the class down afterward to swim the river, bank to bank, like running laps around the salle, only a lot more pleasant in this heat. Those who did not know how to swim had learned in short order. Many classes, especially those in the hottest part of the day, had been moved outside, down by the river. Even the courtiers had abandoned the Court, opting to go off to their own country estates or visit those of friends. The Hill was practically deserted except for those who needed to be here to conduct the business of the Kingdom.
The cooks had declared a moratorium on “cooking,” switching most of the kitchen work to the early, early morning when things had cooled down. But as hot as it was, no one really wanted to eat anything warm, and with lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, cold meats and bread satisfied just about everyone.
This, far more than the three days of the wedding, felt a lot like a holiday for Mags. Everyone was a little lazy, including the teachers. The good will generated by the wedding still lingered, which meant everyone was inclined to forgive a little laziness.
Lena and Bear had settled into Bear’s quarters, but otherwise nothing really changed. They seemed determined to prove that they had made the right decision, and not even those most critical found anything in their behavior or their lessons to complain about. Amily seemed relieved . . . and, somewhat to Mags’ bemusement, gave no indication that she was particularly envious or that she was harboring a secret longing to get married herself.
He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or wary. He certainly didn’t want to bring it up. He didn’t feel in the least as if he was ready for something like that. To be honest, when he looked at some of the other Trainees, he still felt terribly, terribly behind and very young—and in no way ready to go any further with Amily than he had already.
Redoubt: Book Four of the Collegium Chronicles (A Valdemar Novel) Page 11