“Pleased t’ meetcher, Bard Marchand,” he said, and immediately put on his thickest accent and an amiable-but-stupid expression. He thrust out his hand; Bard Marchand took it with a bit of hesitation. He pumped the Bard’s hand with great enthusiasm and exactly as if he was working a pump handle, before letting go of it.
“Pleased to meet you at last, Trainee Mags,” said the Bard, flexing his fingers gingerly, although he didn’t make a great show of doing so. That was a little odd. It couldn’t have been because Mags had crushed his hand with a hard grip; Mags knew better than to pull that kind of game with a Bard (someone who needed his fingers intact) even if he didn’t like the man.
No, he got the flash of an impression that Marchand was keeping himself from pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his hand off only by force of will. As if he expected that Mags would be dirty, or something.
Nice, he thought sourly.
“This here purty filly’s Amily,” he said, since Marchand was still ignoring the other person in the room as utterly unimportant. Time to display the fact that he, at least, had some manners. “She be Herald Nikolas’ daughter.”
A flicker of recognition passed across the Bard’s face, and a flicker of chagrin as he must have realized that Amily was too important a personage to continue to ignore, especially after that dressing-down he’d gotten from Master Bard Lita. “Ah,” the Bard said, turning toward her and beaming the full force of his personality at her as he scooped up her hand and kissed the fingertips. “Enchanted. I had no idea my old friend Nikolas had such a lovely daughter.” It was easy to see how the Bard charmed his admirers; although this wasn’t— quite—the application of his Gift, the Bard had a full measure of charisma and clearly was used to employing it with great precision.
Amily flushed, but only Mags knew it was not with pleasure. “I prefer to stay quietly out of the public eye, Bard Marchand,” she said with an edge to her voice under the sweetness. “I’ve no taste for court maneuverings, and I suppose you would say I am something of a bookworm. Father indulges my taste for solitude.”
“What kin we be a-doin’ fer ye, Bard Marchand?” Mags said, letting his voice take on tones of faintly servile admiration. The man lived on flattery, it seemed, so... give him what he wanted and see what came of it. “ ’M jest a Trainee, cain’t think what brung ye up here, ’less ye wanta know stuff’s in Archives.”
“Oh, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to give me your view of the events of this winter, and the discovery of those vile miscreants in Haven a few days ago, Trainee?” Marchand continued, turning back to Mags with a coaxing manner. “I understand you had a firsthand view of them during their stay at the Palace, and were instrumental in discovering that they were still in Haven.” He smiled. “It’s all fodder for work, of course. And while I am sure that you have already told others of my calling all about those events, a Bard is doing less than his duty if he fails to get the tale directly from those who lived it. The Dean of your Collegium himself advised that I speak directly to you when I enquired of the matter.”
For a moment Mags wondered if that last was a lie. He wouldn’t put anything past Marchand, if Marchand wanted something badly enough, including lying about whether Herald Caelan had actually sent him.
But... no, probably not. He might be self centered, but he wasn’t stupid, and it would be ridiculously easy for Mags to catch him in a lie, even if Mags was as dull as he was pretending to be. It was very likely he’d be caught out, in fact; Mags would certainly say something about it to Caelan the next time he saw the Dean. After all, Bard Marchand was wildly popular and wildly famous, and it would be natural for Mags to be flattered that he had been singled out, and just as natural to thank the Dean for the opportunity to meet the Bard.
Well, natural in Marchand’s eyes, anyway.
:Humph. Indeed. He thinks the world is always watching him.:
:I’d like t’ be watching th’ back of him as he leaves, right now.:
The fastest way to be rid of him would be to tell him the bare, unvarnished truth in as few words as possible; use that veneer of stupid stolidity to Mags’ advantage. Someone as dense as Mags wanted to seem would have little or no imagination, and might be so overwhelmed by the “honor” of Marchand’s attention that he could only manage to get out simple sentences.
So that was what Mags did; keeping the tale spare, staring without comprehension when Marchand asked him things like “But what did you think of that?” or “But how did you feel?”
“Don’t rightly know, Bard,” would usually be his reply, as he would let a puzzled expression creep across his face.
This set him down in Marchand’s mind as a singularly unimaginative, stolid country bumpkin, which suited Mags perfectly.
But it was painfully clear as the questioning continued, that Marchand also considered him to be, if not an actual “hero,” certainly a proto-hero, and one with a great deal of potential. Precisely what Mags did not want him to think. Marchand kept dropping flattering little comments about how brave he was for one so young, and how he surely had a bright future ahead of him. There was no doubt in Mags’ mind that Marchand was not going to be satisfied with this single encounter. He was trying to cultivate Mags.
And Mags kept saying things like “Eh, ’twas all Dallen,” and “I didn’ git a chance t’ think, belike.” And it didn’t seem to help.
:I’ll say this for him, his instincts are very good when it comes to spotting those who are likely to make good songfodder,: Dallen admitted reluctantly. :And even better for spotting those who can help him enlarge his own fame.:
And when the conversation shifted to the new game of Kirball, it was obvious that Marchand’s interest was not feigned—though he seemed less interested in the game itself than in the players. Mags was a Kirball champion, at least for now, which also made him a desirable—acquaintance?
:No,: Dallen said sourly. :Acquisition. Marchand acquires people. People he thinks other people will want to know. I am afraid he has decided that you are a very desirable target, probably more for Kirball than for the business with the foreigners. The latter could have been due to mere happenstance, you being in the right place at exactly the right time, then acting like a Herald should. The former is something that is going to be popular, and if Marchand knows nothing else, he is superb at riding waves of popularity. Watch out, or he’ll invite you to—:
“I am going to stage a small concert for just a few friends,” the Bard said smoothly. “I’m sure you’d like to attend, and I am equally sure my friends would enjoy discussing this new game with you. I’m going to hold it tomorrow night, after the Court dinner.”
Mags was about to open his mouth to come up with some excuse why he couldn’t attend, when the Bard’s next words stopped him dead.
“Lena is going to sing as well, aren’t you, my dear?” the Bard said, as Lena nodded. “It’s so important for a young Bardic student to get early exposure to audiences other than their friends and teachers. Good training for what is to come. There is nothing so important to a Bard as being able to gauge his audience within a few moments, ascertain what their mood is, and at need, what direction to steer that mood.”
Lena looked so thrilled that she was going to be performing in the same venue as her father that Mags could not bear to mar that happiness in any way.
And Marchand surely knew that. He might not know that Mags had helped to steady Lena during her first contest, but he absolutely knew that Mags was one of Lena’s best friends and steadfast supporters, and that Mags would never abandon her to face a room full of strangers on her own.
“We’ll be glad to come, Amily an’ me,” Mags said then, deciding that if he was going to be blackmailed into this, he was going to make Marchand pay for it another way. Snub Amily, ye smug peacock, I dare ye! “Amily missed Lena’s contest; she’ll be a mort glad t’ hear ’er sing now!”
Marchand was clearly taken aback, but there was no way now that he could just come out
and say “but I only invited you” without looking unforgivably rude. “Good, then,” he replied, plastering a smile on his face. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing both of you. Right after Court dinner; it will be one of the rooms off the Great Hall. Lena can come and fetch you, so you don’t get lost in the Palace.”
Nice. Treat Lena like a servant, like ye treated me.
:Giving Lena no preparation time for her performance,: commented Dallen.
:’Cept we know her an’ we know she’ll hev prepped herself all day,: Mags replied. :He really don’t know her at all, does he?:
:Not in the least.:
“Thank you, dear, for bringing me here and introducing me to your friend,” Marchand continued. “Now I must be off, and you must go on to your classes. And I see that I was interrupting some work here, so I am sure I shouldn’t continue to do so. Until tomorrow night!”
He turned with a flourish, and made an exit, with Lena pattering along beside and a little behind him, just like an obedient, devoted spaniel.
Amily bent her head over the papers for a moment, and it was clear she was furious. Finally she said something.
“Oh, that man.”
It was more restrained than he expected.
“I don’ like ’im, not one bit,” Mags said, “ ’E makes me skin crawl.”
“Well, he is clear proof that talent and a Gift don’t make you a wonderful person,” Amily said sourly. “It makes me wish that there was a better way of selecting Bards than just judging what they can do. Someone like that should . . .” She paused, and then said, unexpectedly, “Do you know why he tries to humiliate my father every chance he gets? Did Father tell you?”
Mags shook his head.
:Oh, this could be interesting.: He felt Dallen settle back, waiting for the revelation.
:Yer a worse gossip than a old woman.:
:It’s only gossip if you repeat it. Until then, it’s gathering information.:
“Because many years ago, when they were both Trainees, my father was party to something that Marchand would really rather no one else knew.” Her lips tightened. “And I shouldn’t tell you this, and I wouldn’t, except that you are in Father’s confidence. What happened was that he was in the same room when Marchand was getting a dressing-down from the Dean of Bardic for some incredibly selfish thing he had done. Father never told me what it was, but given Marchand, he probably used his Gift to get something he wanted to the detriment of someone else.”
“Like, usin’ it t’ hev his way wi’ a servant, or somethin’?” Mags hazarded. He could easily imagine that. Anything from getting the servant to do something he wasn’t supposed to, or finagling a girl into his bed.
Amily nodded. “Probably wenching,” she said, confirming Mags’ guess. “They were both about sixteen at the time. My father was the witness to it, so the Dean had him in the office to confirm the accusation. Whatever it was isn’t important... what’s important is that he did something that was in violation of Bardic ethics.”
“It couldn’ have been huge,” Mags pointed out. Then hesitated. “Could it?”
“Well... that’s the question. I mean, not life-threatening huge, but I would say very serious. The thing is that the Dean really lost his temper with Marchand, and told Marchand with Father there—” She paused, and closed her eyes, as if making sure of the memory. “ ‘The only reason we allow you to continue here is because, with a Gift as strong as yours, we dare not let you off our leash. You are like a dangerous animal, Trainee, but you are one of us by virtue of that Gift, and the Bardic Circle will not abandon their responsibilities in the matter of how you use that Gift. We will control you, Marchand, if you do not learn to control yourself and abide by the rule of ethics and law.’ ”
Mags felt his jaw dropping open with shock. Well, that explained a lot. “Anyone else know this?” he gasped.
“The Dean, who’s dead now, Father, me, the King, Marchand himself, and now you,” Amily said gravely. “Father told me and the King. I very much doubt the Dean told anyone. Marchand knows that as long as he stays just on the edge of the line, so to speak, my father won’t ever say or do anything about what he knows. So he doesn’t actually use his Gift to get things he wants directly, he just uses it to charm people into wanting to give him what he wants.” She paused. “I don’t think he’s actually evil, just incredibly selfish. I don’t think anyone matters to him except as a means to getting what he wants.”
“Gah.” Mags felt sick. “So thet’s why he ain’t in the Ruling Circle e’en though he’s a Master Bard.”
Amily nodded. “Exactly. He will never be on the Council or in the Ruling Circle. The King will always veto him. I don’t know if anyone has ever guessed why for certain, but most of the high ranking Bards feel about him the way you do, and the plain fact is they all know he is far too selfish to ever be allowed real political power, because... he wouldn’t actually abuse it as such, but he would never use it for anything other than what suited his own ends. His ‘friends’ are mostly what I would call patrons and admirers. In fact, I don’t know that he actually has what I would call a real friend.”
Mags pursed his lips thoughtfully. This really explained a lot. He knew that Lena’s family was very well off, and it wasn’t from any income that Marchand might bring in. “Lena’s Mama?” he asked tentatively. “She one of those patrons, like? Thet why ’e married ’er?”
“Lena’s mother has piles of money,” Amily confirmed. “He charmed all of the family, married her, fathered Lena, and now only has to appear home for a few days a year to keep them all dazzled. Or so Father says. I don’t see any reason to disagree with that.”
Mags shook his head. “Gotta say, what wi’ Lena’s Pa an’ Bear’s folks, mebbe I ain’t so bad off not hevin’ a fambily.”
Amily only sighed. “Then there is Master Soren, and my father,” she pointed out. “And Marc’s family, Pip’s family and Gennie’s—more good than bad. Not all families are trouble... but I will admit, it does make me appreciate my own.”
The East and West teams had played their first Kirball match yesterday, and the dining hall was still full of the babble of people talking the match over and comparing it to the North and South match. You could tell who was discussing the game—which was almost everyone—by the flailing arms and hand gestures. Everyone had an opinion. Bardic Trainees were clearly trying to figure out how to write songs about this. Mags overheard some comparisons between how he and Dallen had taken the North flag to how East Foot Kaven Lockertie had stolen the West flag. So far, the Fetching Gift hadn’t even come into play, which didn’t much surprise Mags. You’d have to be really, really good to make Fetching work in the middle of the scrum, and as for standing off on the side... the moment anyone spotted a Herald Trainee doing that, they would be on him in a heartbeat.
Mags had found that he had, indeed, enjoyed watching—perhaps even more than he had enjoyed playing. But the second full day of non-stop babble about it was beginning to pall, for there were only so many ways that you could replay the match in theory. He wasn’t comfortable speculating about what the other teams could and could not do. He certainly wasn’t comfortable with talking about his own abilities or lack of them. And he was very glad that Bear was talking about something else.
Bear’s herbal medicine kit was coming along. The Healers in general were satisfied with his progress, and he was happy. Mags didn’t understand more than half of what he was saying about it all, but it was obvious that things were going well, so he listened and contributed where he could.
Now the idea had expanded to placing one in every village that didn’t have a Healer; nearly every village had a midwife or something of the sort, so that would be who would have the responsibility for keeping the kit safe and doling out the medicines.
“I’d worrit ’bout thet kit makin’ people think they didn’ need a Healer,” he offered. “Y’ know, jest tryin’ one medicine after ’nother till it was too late.”
“They d
o that now, without the kit around,” Bear replied, shrugging. “Mostly the medicines and remedies they try are ineffective ones. But you’re right to think that, the Healers’ Circle debated it for almost a day before deciding it was going to do more good than harm. At least this way, the medicines they’ll try are known to be effective, and known to be of standard strength, and not something like dead beetles and bat’s blood pounded with the dung of a pregnant goat.”
Mags stared at him, fascinated and appalled. “Yer jokin’. No? Thet’s s’posed t’ be a medicine?”
Bear grimaced. “Not only that, but one with a lot of people that swear by it. Thank the gods it’s only supposed to be for going bald, and you are supposed to rub it in your scalp, not eat it. I don’t want to think about how you’d stink when you were using it, or what it would do to a scalp wound.”
“I’d be more like t’ swear at it then swear by it.” Mags shuddered. “An’ here I thought yer messes was foul!”
Bear shrugged. “Right now I’m trying to work out how to dry that bread mold that works on wounds so that you can get it to sprout again. And how to describe exactly what it looks like so people know whether or not the right stuff sprouted. As it stands, the only way we have to get the stuff out is to take a live batch out by hand and cosset it the whole way.”
Mags shook his head. “I dunno. Yarbs an’ things, ye kin prolly get people t’ believe on’y the stuff i’ th’ kit works right. But ye start sendin’ out mold, an’ people’ll start thinkin’ mebbe you was wrong an’ them dried beetles’d work jest fine.”
“That’s a good point.” Bear slowly chewed and swallowed. “I have a favor to ask. Think you could come give me a hand with the Lunatic?”
Mags blinked. This was—unexpected. “Aye but—how? I ain’t a Healer nor a Mindhealer.”
“Actually, that’s the point. The Mindhealers don’t want to get near him, I guess their shields aren’t as good as yours, or else the way they have to work is completely without shields. When he talks, he doesn’t speak Valdemaran, and that’s a problem. Sometimes people who’ve gone mad actually make sense once you figure out what the meaning is behind what they are saying.” Bear scratched his neck. “Am I making any sense here?”
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