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 . . .”
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 lie, 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 wo
rried 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.
Wunner whut happened t’ Selna . . .
Further talking with her had uncovered the rather disconcerting information that she’d gone into the “profession” with Mistress Peg because she’d come up from the country to be a serving maid and hadn’t liked all the hard work. Now, Mags knew that not all households were like that of Master Soren, where the servants were treated fairly, and if she’d been treated as a slavey, well, he could sympathize. But she’d come up from the country in the first place because she’d been under the delusion that being a maid in the city meant huge wages (compared to the country) and a life of ease . . . after all, there could be dozens of servants in a household, and with that many hands, she had told herself that no single one would have to work very hard.
Guess’t musta come pretty shockin’ when she was put i’ scullery, he thought ruefully, arranging himself in the shadows above the door and watching for movement up and down the street. He himself had firsthand experience of what working as a scullery drudge was like. And just because there were dozens of servants in a household, it didn’t follow that this was going to make for leisure. Not when the master and mistress would entertain thirty or forty guests at a time, when they constantly had houseguests, and when the houses themselves were so big. Only when the highborn and wealthy were away from their town manors, off in the country on their estates, did things slow down, and the skeleton staff left behind could expect some of that leisure.
Well, he just hoped that the poor old fellow in charge of such things managed to find her someplace where she would be content. He rather dreaded to think that it might be another establishment like Mistress Peg’s.
But he didn’t have any time to think about it now, not when the two men he had been told to watch for had just come around the corner. One of them was holding something.
He went very still. ::They’re ’ere,:: he warned Nikolas.
He did not like the way they moved; they were aware of everything around them and prepared to attack at the first sign of trouble. But at the same time, they held themselves with an unconscious arrogance, as if the assumption that they would prevail in any fight was something so ingrained in them that it was unconscious. Their walk said all of that. It was . . . it was the walk of a predator. It was the way the man who had nearly slaughtered a stableful of Companions had walked.
That alarmed him. If they even suspected that Nikolas was not what he seemed—the previous lot had proved they would kill without thinking twice about it. Quickly he passed that information on to Nikolas. ::Amily’d never f’rgive me if—::
::And she would equally never forgive me if anything happened to you,:: Nikolas replied somberly. ::I have a knife on me and I’ve bolted the door. There’s a shutter I can slam down over the pay-window if I need to, and that will give me time to come up the hatch and join you.::
The men had reached the shop. Mags froze, not even breathing. Unlike Selna, they were making a quick scan of everywhere, including up, before either of them even touched the door. Mags knew he was in full shadow. He knew that at most, only the top of his head showed from where he was crouched. But he felt a cold chill spread over him as their gaze raked the roof, and he didn’t relax at all when they finally opened the door and entered the shop.
Assuming all went well in there . . . he was going to have to be very, very careful when they came out.
Carefully, he opened his awareness some. Not like dropping shields at all, but enough to see if he could just read something on their surface.
He couldn’t, not like he could with ordinary folk. There was something in the way, and he pulled back. This was not the point at which to make them wary, because men like these two reacted swiftly and decisively when something made them wary.
At least he had not felt that bewildering kinship with either of these men, the way he had with the rage-filled assassin. Nor did there seem to be any inexplicable link with them. He still had no idea what could have caused such a link. It had almost been as if—
—no, that was utterly ridiculous. And he had better not let his thoughts wander, not now, not at this juncture.
He didn’t move, not a muscle, as he concentrated on sensing what he could, passively, without letting his shields down too far, and without impinging on Nikolas. The last thing the King’s Own needed right now was to get his metaphorical “elbow” jiggled.
Well . . . they were talking. Small things leaked past those shields-that-were-not-shields. There was no sense of animosity . . . a bit of contempt for the lowly creature who was purchasing their information. Information . . . they wanted to be known? They were planting this information?
He couldn’t shake that impression. Whatever it was these men were here for, they wanted what they were selling to be generally known. Generally? No . . . no they wanted it to be known to the people who were interested in it. Now, since “it” was the whereabouts of the foreign assassins, it followed that they wanted the people who were trying to track them down—the Heralds, the Guards—to know this deceptive information. Of course. They were trying to throw the Heralds and Guards off the trail. That, at least, made sense.
Now they were amused, as Nikolas reacted to a bit of intimidation with fear he tried to cover with bluster. The bargaining concluded quickly after that. They pushed something through under the bars. Nikolas pushed a great deal of silver back, and he added the Shin’a’in brooch that had told them nothing on top.
They didn’t react to the brooch. They gathered it up and left. The emerged into the street, examined the entire area for anyone who might be following, and turned and walked away, going in the opposite direction from which they had come.
Mags watched them. He was going to keep as far back from them as he could.
::What’d they say?:: he asked Nikolas, as the two strode off, positioning themselves in such a way as to cover each others’ blind spots.
::That the spies left Haven,:: came the reluctant reply. ::They say they arranged passage with a traders’ caravan going into the East, into Hardorn. They said that the foreigners had paid them with almost everything they had, and they sold me another one of those poetry books and a few odds and ends.:: Nikolas hesitated. ::It’s a very plausible story. Why don’t I believe them?::
::’Cause yer smart.::
::Or I have good instincts.::
::Wut I think I got from ’em is thet this’s tryin’ t’throw us offen th’ trail. They got that funny shield t’other one had, so I cain’t be sure. I got little bits, ’cause whatever thet shield is, I dun want it pickin’ up on me. So I cain’t be certain-sure.::
Now Mags left his perch and followed the men. He had the “flavor” of their thoughts, even if he had not probed deeply enough to read anything. With that, unless they worked their way into a crowd, he would be able to find them.
::Oh, I think you’re right. These men were better prepared than the first lot—they speak Valdemaran extremely well, and they’re dressed like locals in old clothes—but they can’t hide what they are, and they are too well-trained to be local thugs.::
Mags continued to gather what he could from them, passively. Whatever else these men were, they were not insane—or at least they were not as full of rage as the other assassins had been. Cold, definitely. Calculating. Purposeful. And literally nothing meant anything to them, not even each other, except the job. The first two a
ssassins had been the flawed copies of which these two were the perfect originals. Mags didn’t want to get too close to their minds, though, because he sensed that they were very much like the second assassin in another aspect. They were not Mindspeakers—but they could be. They were not shielded—but that something was protecting them. So long as he hovered passively, that “thing” wouldn’t notice him, and he could pick up bits of what they were thinking. Images, feelings, mostly. Unlike the first and second assassins, they did not hate Valdemar. Nor did they like it. They were entirely indifferent to the place. For them, it was just another place that held a job, and it was always the job, not the surroundings, that mattered.
He followed on the roofs; he wished he could have gone down to the ground, but he didn’t dare. These men were too good. They just might spot him.
There was a definite purpose in them, not just whatever the long-term job they had come for. They had an immediate task, one that had to be performed very, very soon. He balanced on a rooftree and scuttled down the slates while his mind oozed around them like a weasel circling something very dangerous, but asleep. The task was to take care of something unfinished. There was contempt. Contempt for the task? No. He crossed between two roofs as he followed that faint wisp of contempt. Not contempt for the task. Contempt for . . . for . . .
There was a flash of an image, but because he had seen this man with his own eyes, and more than once, he knew it immediately. The supposed “head” of the phony “trading envoys!”
The contempt came strongly with the image. Contempt for him—contempt, presumably, for the rest of the men who had been with him. Disgust . . . .
Mags negotiated a drop to a lower roofline, then scrambled up it to reach a higher one. Disgust. They had . . . they had . . .
Well, he already guessed at that. These men were disgusted with their predecessors because of their performance—or more correctly, lack of performance. They’d failed at the task, the greater task that these two had taken over, and failed at it twice.
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