But . . . well, it seemed that they did. And like everyone else, he had basically been told he was going to be playing them when he arrived. Oh it had been phrased politely: “You’ll be joining everyone for the games, of course.” But it was pretty clear that if you didn’t join in, you were violating some sort of unspoken code. He had no doubt that those who did not follow the code were not given invitations to other such festivities. That would hardly matter to him . . . except that he was trying very hard to keep track of Brand, and it was easier to do so from among the guests than among the servants.
He was not the only one who didn’t think much of this form of entertainment. While some people were enjoying the spectacle of a blindfolded young man in the middle of this manse’s Great Hall, groping wildly in the air, trying to catch someone, it was pretty clear that others were utterly bored and forcing their laughter.
Not some of the young ladies, though; the blindfolded fellow was Brand, and there were no few of them who were not trying too hard to evade him.
Well . . . this Midwinter season might be the last time that they would have the thrill of doing such a thing with a good looking fellow their own age. By this time next year, at least if their parents got their way, these young women would be married and pregnant. And that would be the end of their freedom, until their children were grown. No parties of this sort at Midwinter, but rather staid dinner parties at which there was low-key music and the same entertainers that everyone else had hired, because you didn’t deviate from the accepted formula for a party.
As Mags watched Brand slowly fumble his way across the floor, chasing the errant brush of a sleeve or a whiff of scent, he reflected on the things Amily had told him about girls in the highborn and wealthy circles.
They were eyes-deep in very specific lessons from the time they were old enough to walk; all things calculated to make them desirable as spouses, not things they might want to learn. When they reached adolescence, they were immediately considered to be marriage-fodder. Some were actually betrothed earlier than that, but the Crown frowned on child-marriages—fourteen was the youngest that was considered “reasonable.” Once they turned fourteen, husbands would be sought, and if not found, every Midwinter Season was spent here at Court seeking one, until the girl got to her twenties. At that point, it was felt that she never would, and she had best join some religious order or resign herself to whatever use the family cared to make of her; usually as governess to some other sibling’s children. During that period between fourteen and oblivion, was a girl’s only taste of (relative) freedom. She could dance and flirt and play games with young men she didn’t know. She got new clothing every Midwinter. She went to two parties every day during the Season. She got to see the capital, and if her parents were indulgent enough, got to do things like attend plays and the Midwinter Fair.
Then, once married, that ended. She was expected to handle her husband’s household if he had inherited; if his parents were still alive she was expected to tend to him and serve as her mother-in-law’s chief handmaiden. It was possible her husband would be much older than she was, and if so, she was expected to be his nurse if he required that. If he had young children by a previous marriage, she was expected to supervise them. Her household duties could range from few to dawn-to-dusk, depending on the wealth of her husband and how many servants she had—but even if she had many servants, she was expected to supervise them. And she was expected to produce, at the very least, “an heir and a spare.” The days of dancing and attending parties were over, until her children were grown and married. Unless, of course, she married a man much older than she was; she could expect to outlive him, and possibly become a very wealthy widow while still young . . . and no few of these young ladies were hoping for just that. Or, they were hoping that their husbands would have no more interest in them than they had in him, and once the “heir and spare” were dutifully produced, their spouses would look the other way if there were . . . shenanigans. Just as they would pretend their husband was not up to shenanigans of his own. In either of these cases, they would be going to the parties that Brand preferred to attend . . . the ones where certain messages were exchanged, and late at night, certain doors were left unlocked.
Now, these girls knew that, all of it. Dia had made it quite clear to Mags that the ones as romantic and idealistic as Violetta were very few and far between. So in this brief interlude of relative freedom, they were enjoying the illusion, well aware that it was an illusion, that there was any hope one of these young men would fall in love with them. Unlike Violetta, they knew this was all staged as carefully as any play. If they married any of the young men here, it would be negotiated by their respective parents, not the random lightning-strike of romance.
This party had about thirty young people about Brand’s age, and roughly half that many parents. Probably all the girls brought chaperones, or were brought by one, Mags thought, considering the faces around him. The lads are reckoned as not needing watchdogs. He considered the group around him with a detached eye, and it occurred to him that these afternoon parties were meant to exhaust nervous energy and keep the young people out of trouble, rather than form the backbone of the serious marriage-marketeering. If you had to go to a supervised, chaperoned event in the afternoon, and you spent all morning getting ready for it, then there was no time for you to slip off to any unsupervised liaisons before you had to return to get ready for the more serious, evening party. He suspected that was the theory at work, anyway. There would probably be servants stationed anywhere that a young couple might try to find a moment of illicit privacy. Of course, the servants would do nothing themselves; they’d go get someone of appropriate rank to interrupt.
Glory. I am so glad I’m me, an’ not them. He’d thought that courting Amily and becoming lovers had been complicated and fraught with a lot of “busy-bodying”! He’d had no idea!
A trio of musicians played a piece he supposed would be considered “lively” by the standards of people who were, in his estimation, severely overdressed for any exertion, what with their under-dresses and tunics, over-dresses and tunics, extra sleeves, neck ruffs, and who knew what-all was underpinning what was visible. It almost seemed as if the more money you had, the more clothing you wore.
Well, unless you are very poor. Then in winter at least you wear every stitch you own, all at once.
By the standards of the Trainees of all three Collegia and their celebrations, this music was exceedingly tame, so had the dancing been, and so were the games.
So far, they had been coerced into this game, into one in which a blindfolded victim was supposed to stick a tail onto a painted Companion, and a race in which the participants balanced boiled eggs in spoons while they attempted to run across the length of the Great Hall. If these things were supposed to be amusing, Mags couldn’t see it. On the whole he was entirely glad that he’d never had to go to any of these parties before, and he was not looking forward to the fact that he’d probably have to go to them in the future. Or at least, he would as long as he still looked like a “young” man. Well, maybe not nearly as many. The only reason I’m here now is to keep Brand from running across one of the House Chendlar cousins.
He’d more-or-less been told to get into every official party that Brand attended, because it was entirely possible that the young men of House Chendlar would decide to invite themselves. This happened all the time; young men would decide to don masks and bluff their way into a party where there happened to be girls they were interested in. As long as they behaved themselves, this was basically winked at.
Thus far, none of the lesser members of the two feuding Houses had crossed paths. Mags was there to make sure that if it happened, it was only paths that crossed.
He really would rather have been watching in case the signal came telling him that there was about to be a brawl between Raeylen and Chendlar, but Dallen was standing by, already tacked up, and watching from just outside
the Palace walls. Others were, too, but Dallen would be able to get down here and get him to the scene of combat faster than anyone else could get there.
At least he had been invited on his own, and not as part of Brand’s entourage of new friends from Court. That meant he could leave—
:Mags! Red smoke!:
He managed not to jump. But his heart started to race, and he clamped down on his immediate reaction to run out the nearest door.
All right, he told himself. No need to hurry. In fact, he didn’t strictly need to be there, although he wanted to in order to keep a careful eye on everything and coordinate the response. The smoke meant that the would-be combatants had just now set off from the Bird in the Hand. The little lads were quick, and could get from the tavern to the Guard Station in almost no time at all. The Bird in the Hand was a brisk half candlemark walk to the Flag and Flagon if you kept up your pace. They probably would not be setting that fast a pace; they’d all have some liquor in them, and they’d be egging each other on, which was going to slow them down.
He had time. And he was not going to be alone down there. The Guard was already mustering, and the Prince was also aware of the signal and for all Mags knew, he was probably out the Palace Gate at this point.
He carefully eased himself out of the crowd around Brand, and slipped off to the side. Making his way to the antechamber where the guests’ cloaks had been left, he found it unattended, a piece of luck he was very grateful for. He really did not want to have to go out into the cold without a cloak. Now . . . how to get out . . .
:I’m almost there. Are you going to suit up?: Dallen had a uniform in his saddlebag, but there was no time to change into Whites, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He needed to blend with the crowd that would inevitably gather, not stand out from them. He’d be able to do more if he didn’t look like a Herald. :I don’t think so. Let’s do this incognito.:
He couldn’t leave by the front door; there was a servant stationed there, and he didn’t want to be noticed. But there was a door into the gardens, and a gate at the back of the kitchen gardens into an alley, and thanks to scouting out this manor beforehand, he knew where both were. Within a few moments, he was in that alley. If it had been night, he’d have been running along the tops of the walls that separated each manor from the next, but he would be terribly conspicuous if he did that in broad daylight. Not to mention that there was ice on the tops of these walls; at the speed he needed to be going, he’d likely slip and kill himself. Snow was coming down; big fat flakes falling out of a gray sky that looked like a dome of slate. Too bad it isn’t rain. Rain would certainly discourage most of these idiots from trying to start a brawl.
:Next street.:
Dallen was at full run, and so was he; he was running on the edge of the alley where the snow hadn’t gotten packed down into ice. That was all very well for delivery people and the collectors of refuse, who could use sledges on the ice, but not so good for a running man. Dallen got to the intersection of the alley and the street before he did; skidded to a halt and waited while he raced toward his Companion.
Mags vaulted into the saddle, settled in without bothering with the stirrups, and they were off. Dallen was running the fine line between “not going to kill ourselves on this icy street” and “my god, we are going to die.” If they hadn’t spent so much time together in Kirball practice. . . .
They pounded down the Hill, and fortunately there was no one out to see the incongruous sight of an apparent highborn riding a Companion at breakneck speed. People were either attending parties, at Court, or getting ready for evening festivities. But the Flag and Flagon was not too far down off the Hill; it was just off the main street with all the expensive inns that served those who did not have, or did not want manors for brief visits to Haven. A working-man’s tavern, and not an inn at all, it was popular with the servants who served all those highborn. Mags dismounted a good block away, and came up to the inn via the back alley way.
Just as well that he did; as the snow got heavier, he came around the corner into the yard where drinkers could sit in fine weather, and nearly ran into a mob. It was clear that someone had warned the servants of House Raeylen that trouble was on the march, for they had left their benches in the tavern, and were gathering in front of it, weapons in hand.
Mags got himself atop a pile of shoveled snow and surveyed them quickly. No one was paying any attention to him, or to any of the other people who were gathering at the sight of what looked like it was going to be interesting trouble. Idiots. Why is it there can never be a fight without people wanting to get in the way of it? Most of the weapons were improvised; clubs, for the most part. But there were enough knives in the crowd to do some serious damage. And he could hear the mob coming from the direction of the Bird in the Hand now.
There was no sign of the Guard or the Watch.
:Dallen, we need help now.:
:I know. Help is on the way.:
The mob turned a corner and stopped. Clearly, it had not occurred to the men of House Chendlar that their enemies might have had some warning they were coming.
For a long time, the two groups just stared at each other. Then, at some signal Mags never saw, House Raeylen charged.
Just as the help arrived.
Pounding into the inn square from the Hill came at least two dozen Herald Trainees, with a couple of their instructors, all charging into the incipient melee at full speed. Anyone who saw them started scrambling out of the way. Anyone who didn’t, and was in the way, soon found himself bowled over by a mount that knew precisely how to apply his momentum and his shoulder to an opponent on foot without hurting him too much.
It was the Kirball teams, of course—or rather, the Trainees that played on the teams. They must have been out practicing, which meant they were already in the saddle and “armored” up when Dallen’s call for help came. And they were all well acquainted with a good scuffle.
Without a moment of hesitation, they waded in; once they cleared the center of the space, mostly all they did was shove in between any people who were fighting who were in serious danger of actually injuring one another. From the sidelines, Mags assisted by pelting combatants with snowballs aimed straight for the face. They couldn’t hurt each other if they couldn’t see. Once other bystanders saw what he was doing, they did the same. And so far as Mags was concerned, it really didn’t matter at all if the bystanders were on one side or the other, as long as the snowballs kept flying. Any interference was good interference.
Either the combatants on both sides were so worked up—or so drunk—that the fact they were being yelled at by Heralds and Trainees, and shouldered aside by Companions didn’t register, or they just didn’t care. It was possible, of course, that they actually did not care. Not everyone held Heralds in high esteem, as he had discovered when out on circuit. Within Haven . . . and near it . . . definitely. But the further you got from the capital, the more likely it became that you would run into people who respected Heralds not at all.
It seemed to take forever, but it probably wasn’t more than a quarter candlemark before the Guard and the Watch arrived. Once they did, the Trainees backed off, allowing the men with authority and experience to wade in and separate the fighters—by force and with the weighted cudgels they were armed with, at need. One or two had to be physically separated, and by the time they’d gotten both sides sorted out and herded up into two groups under guard, there was a flourish of trumpets, and Prince Sedric rode up, surrounded by Guards.
Mags judged it prudent to leave. So did Dallen. :Best if your face isn’t seen by anyone who can recognize it, Chosen,: the Companion said. :I’ll be in the alley. Duck into the stable, change into your Whites, and let’s go somewhere warm, dry, and preferably with ale and pocket pies.:
11
Amily rode in the entourage with Prince Sedric down to break up the riot . . . although by the time they got there,
the riot was well over and the combatants separated into two groups under guard.
The Prince had ordered them all to go at the trot, not at the gallop. “I am not letting these idiots think their tantrums warrant immediate attention,” he had told Amily, when she looked at him askance. “Mags has gotten some help to break things up, and the Guard and Watch can put them in order.” His Companion had stamped a hoof to emphasize that. “Let them wait in the cold and the snow. Maybe it will cool their hot heads. If they have minor hurts, all the better. The truth is, it’s their masters I want to deal with, not them.”
So they trotted down to the tavern, with an entourage, but not a big one. He had come with not one, but four Guards with trumpets, and as they trotted into the area in front of a working-man’s tavern, the trumpeters were blowing full fanfares at such volume there was no mistaking someone very important was about to arrive.
Amily didn’t know what the Prince intended other than making a spectacular entrance, so she just followed his lead. The riders all arranged themselves in a line, opposite the two groups of men, with herself and the Prince at the center. There was evidence of fighting, but it wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. There was some blood on the churned-up snow, being covered even now by more snow falling on it. Men were nursing black eyes and possibly cracked skulls, there seemed to be a couple with broken arms and shoulder-blades, and plenty were cut—but she couldn’t see where anyone had been stabbed. There was a Healer working among them—and scolding each one under his breath as he gave them some basic tending. She had the feeling he was giving them more than a few pieces of his mind.
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 21
